


The Romantic Prawn Who Loved Christmas

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Christmas, Facials, Falling In Love, Flirting, Gift Giving, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magical Holiday Theory, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pining, Pureblood Holiday Customs, Rimming, Sleep wanking, background Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, bed sharing, room sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 04:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 39,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13182756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: When Draco, forced into sharing a room with Potter for the year, finds out that Potter has a sleepwalking problem, heexpectsthe odd conversations and the weird games of chess.What comes as a complete shock are Potter'sotheractivities...And why he seems so intent on having Draco join him.(Relax. It's just like a holiday Hallmark movie! ...With, uhm, sleepwanking.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chibaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibaken/gifts).



> To my darling [Chibaken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/chibaken/pseuds/chibaken), who is a constant source of fun and joy and support, and one of the most amazing people I've met in the fandom. I'm sorry this is so late, sweets! Happy Birthday, and Merry Christmas! (And uh, happy New Year too! *sheepish*)
> 
> Massive thanks go out to [magpie_fngrl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/pseuds/magpie_fngrl/works?fandom_id=136512) and [jade presley](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jadepresley/pseuds/jadepresley/works?fandom_id=136512) for the speedy and thoughtful betas — you guys are awesome! <3

“What’s up with the Christmas trees?”

Draco looks up from his bed and glances around, expecting to see Weasley slumping in after Potter, but he’s alone as he closes the door and tosses his robes onto the foot of his bed like a complete barbarian. Talking to himself, then; it’s as likely as anything, as Potter quickly learned at the beginning of term that Draco’s responses would be short and clipped. It’s easier, that way, to reign in the urge to irritate the hell out of him. The urge to do other things.

But no, Potter props himself on the edge of his bed, eyeing Draco furtively as he toes his trainers off to leave in the middle of the floor as a tripping hazard. Draco bites back a scowl and points his wand at Potter’s shoes — and the smelly socks that quickly join them — to send them flying into Potter’s open wardrobe, ignoring the quirked smile he gets for his effort.

“Are you not going to tell me about them?” Potter asks after a moment.

“Tell you what,” Draco says flatly, closing his book around his thumb to keep his place.

“Christmas trees?”

“Well,” Draco says, “ancient Egyptian wizards used palm rushes in their early Healing potions experiments, and so began the tradition to decorate their homes with them to ward off death and celebrate the gods who brought them light and gave them magic. Romans,” he continues after a beat, warming to the subject when Potter stares at him with disbelief — a reaction much easier to cope with than the stupidly _friendly_ reaction Draco got from him at the start of term, “decorated their homes and temples with evergreen boughs as a way to mark winter solstice and the feast of Saturnalia, which honoured Saturn, who they believed had blessed them with Earth magic, giving them power over agriculture and growth. But the Druids—”

“Malfoy,” Potter says, shaking his head in irritation. Draco tries not to look too cheered by it. “I meant _those_.” He looks significantly at the two small Christmas trees now sitting in opposite corners of their room. 

“Norway spruce,” Draco says smoothly.

“And?”

“And they’re very useful to support wildlife, including deer, grouse and woodcock. Their needles can even be used to make Crup-nip. Although these are charmed to stay immature, they usually grow at a rate of—”

“Malfoy!” Potter barks with satisfying ire.

“What?” Draco blinks at him innocently.

“Why do you have two Christmas trees in our room?” Potter asks through gritted teeth. “It’s not even November.”

“It’s my room too,” Draco says flatly. He re-opens his book.

“You’re using my side of it,” Potter points out after a second, voice mild again.

Draco huffs. “Get rid of it if you want. Merlin knows you don’t need _my_ permission for anything, do you?” He resolutely doesn’t look at the tree on Potter’s side of the room, not wanting to see Potter Vanish it; it looks strangely vulnerable, having not entirely grown into the denseness the trees are known for. Pulling it out of his trunk had been a whim, anyway, and if he’d known Potter would speak to him over it, he wouldn’t have bothered.

“It’s looks… lonely,” Potter says after a second. 

“It’s a _tree_ ,” Draco says, flushing. He keeps his eyes on the page, but is suddenly unable to absorb anything. When he doesn’t hear the telltale _whoosh_ that accompanies the Vanishing of larger objects, Draco glances up to find Potter staring at him curiously. “What.”

Potter gives another dubious look to the tree in his corner, then turns back to Draco. “I, er, wanted to talk to you.”

“Let’s not ruin a perfectly decent track record this year, shall we?” Draco says. Potter doesn’t respond; he stares down at his knees, watching himself rub nervous hands over his thighs and oh, shit. This must be the “coming to terms with what happened” speech that Granger’s already tried to force on Draco twice. He considers blurting out a blanket apology to get through the whole thing fast, but he barely got through giving one the first time — and then only because it was done in letter form, before term began. “I already apologised for, for...” he says instead, stilted. 

Potter looks up, carding a hand through his hair, surprise flashing over his face “No, I just…”

Relaxing, Draco sets his book aside. “Then we don’t need to.” He swallows, flicking a glance to Potter’s lower lip, caught between his teeth. “It’s fine.”

“But I—”

“Fancied a chat? With me?” Draco snorts, then stands. He doesn’t know what crisis of conscience Potter’s having this time; he could be feeling guilty for the hex Draco took to the back on his way to Transfiguration, for all Draco knows. As long as they don’t have to revisit… anything. He slips his shoes on neatly, points his wand at them so the laces tie, and heads to the door as Potter opens and closes his mouth, his face going oddly pink. “I’ll finish my studying in the library,” he adds, grabbing his cloak from the hook near the door. “Give you some time to get over the inclination.”

“I have some trouble sleeping,” Potter blurts. Nonplussed, Draco freezes in the act of yanking open the door.

“What?”

“I have… It’s just…” Potter sighs. “Trouble sleeping. Sometimes. And I think I might again soon, and so you should know.”

“Oh.” Draco stares at him, but Potter — brave, Gryffindor hero of the world that he is — refuses to meet his eyes. Which, for some reason is every bit as awkward as the first time they saw each other in pyjamas; not that Draco would ever admit to _looking_. “Should I put up a Silencing charm?” he finally asks, as though he doesn’t put one up every night to muffle his _own_ nightmares.

“No. Just thought you should know,” Potter mutters. “Just in case.”

 _Just in case of what?_ Draco’s tempted to ask, but Potter’s face has reverted to the mulish expression Draco’s hasn’t seen since term began, but is frighteningly familiar after the last several years. 

“Fine,” Draco says, and makes his escape.

***

“Harry talked to you, then?”

Draco looks up from his book — _again,_ blast it; he’s got thirteen inches of magical theory due in the morning — and deliberately sighs, squinting at the godawful hue of Weasley’s hair. 

“Did you two decide to take turns?” he asks, irritated. Weasley frowns for a second, then sits. Draco frowns back. “I came to the library to _work._ ”

“Did he talk to you?”

“Why would he bother? We’ve finally gotten good at ignoring one another,” Draco says, disregarding the whisper in his mind that reminds him that's his own damn fault.

“About sleep,” Weasley says under his breath, glaring.

“You either need to practice your nonverbal hexes or increase your fibre intake, Weasel,” Draco drawls, refusing to be intimidated. Much. “Something’s obviously not working, and that expression doesn’t look comfortable.”

“Malfoy,” Weasley says. There’s just enough warning in his tone to make Draco’s smirk slide off his face. 

“Yes, he has trouble sleeping; he said,” Draco snaps, unsettled — more that Weasley’s continuing to talk to him civilly, than anything else. It’ll be just his luck if Granger decides to approach him, too. “Go away.”

Weasley darts a nervous look behind him, wetting his lips quickly.

“Worried about your reputation?” Draco asks, raising a brow, and Weasley snorts, facing him again.

“I don’t care if people see me talking to you—”

“That makes one of us.”

“—and I wouldn’t if it wasn’t important.”

 _Refusing_ to be intrigued, Draco waves a bored hand. “Well, then?”

“Harry’s sleep thing.”

“He told me; he has nightmares.”

Weasley pauses, brow knitting. “He told you he has nightmares?”

“Ye—” Draco stops, thinks. Abashed, he slowly shakes his head. “What is it then? Bed-wetting?” Oh, please let it be bed-wetting.

With a quick eyeroll, Weasley shakes his head. “Look, d’you think I _want_ to be talking to you? But ‘Mione said he’d be too stubborn and I don’t really feature half the castle blowing up because you don’t know.”

Draco’s obstinate lack of curiosity edges toward alarm. He gestures with his hand again, a sharp _get on with it._

“He sleep walks.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Draco says automatically. Weasley gives him an odd look and Draco’s ears grow blisteringly hot; it’s _normal_ , goddamn it, after waking up from a dream, to listen to the breath of someone else in the room. At least, Draco assumes it is. ...It sounds like something normal, anyway. “I just mean, I would have noticed. He would have woken me.”

“He’s been on potions,” Weasley explains, “since the—”

Draco stares at him.

“Right, well.” With another furtive look around, Weasley leans in and lowers his voice further. “It’s not a big deal, alright? Everything is fine. But... his magic gets a little unstable when he’s asleep. So you can’t wake him if it happens.”

“You’re joking.” It doesn’t come out a squawk; Draco is _almost_ sure. “Why didn’t McGonagall warn me when we got these ridiculous room assignments?” 

“She doesn’t know. Almost no one does.” Weasley’s mouth draws into a flat line. “And no one _will_ ,” he says pointedly. “It might not even happen; things have gotten a lot more settled in the last few months, which is good because he’s building a tolerance to the potions. But... There’s a chance.”

“What do they do? The potions?” Draco asks, dropping all pretence of not caring. Not if Potter is going to bloody _murder_ him while he sleeps. Goddamn it, and he’s only just now stopped sleeping with his wand in his grip. “Block his magic? Put him in an Immobulus while he sleeps?”

Weasley scratches his jaw, looking at Draco consideringly. He tugs his ear, then finally says, “Neither. They just… help him sleep.”

“But he’s dangerous? I mean, of course he’s dangerous, but—”

“He’s not dangerous. Just… don’t wake him up. If it happens.”

“What am I _supposed_ to do, let him blow up the castle?”

Abruptly exasperated, Weasley spreads his hands. “He _won’t_. That’s why you don’t wake him up. Just go along with whatever he says and it’ll be fine. I shared with him all summer; it can get weird, but—”

Draco’s shoulders start to lower, then spike up around his ears again. “How weird?” he asks suspiciously.

“Just… He got pretty fond of sleep chess. He has his own rules for it,” Weasley mumbles, looking as though every word he speaks is being forcibly wrenched from his throat with Veritaserum. “And he’ll probably want to talk for a while. Or wander around practicing wandless.”

“ _He practices wandless magic while he’s not awake?_ ” Draco hisses.

“Shhh! I swear, Malfoy, if this gets out…” Weasley trails off threateningly, significantly, and Draco… Well, he fucking _knew it_ , didn’t he? There was no way he was getting by with only couple of stinging hexes to the back, this year. 

He scowls. “I won’t tell anyone.” Of course, that doesn’t mean he can’t leave Potter’s shoes in the middle of the floor, next time. Watching him fall on his face in his sleep might be worth the trouble that comes with rooming with him.

“You’d better not.” Weasley pauses. “And if anything happens to him because you’re being a wanker, I’ll know that too.”

Damn it.

Draco stands, fed up, and to his consternation Weasley rises too. He’s an inch or so taller than Draco now, Draco notices resentfully, not for the first time. Trust Weasley to be as annoying as he can, in every way possible. “Are you following me to the loo now?” he asks with a grimace. “That’s more Potter’s thing, isn’t it?”

“God, how Harry stands it, I’ll never know.” Weasley stares at him for a second longer, then shakes his head. “Remember what I said, Malfoy. I don’t think you want to see what will happen to you if—”

“Spare me,” Draco says, holding up a hand. Weasley gives a curt nod of the head and trips off, probably to find Granger and have a boring, heterosexual snog. Since Draco hadn’t really needed to piss anyway, he sits down again and applies himself to his assignment for the rest of the evening, finally making a good enough argument on spells vs. potions to feel comfortable turning in his essay. He packs up his things and heads back to his room, stomach fluttering with tension.

A sleepwalking Potter. Who might want to talk, or play chess with him. Draco doesn’t know if the idea of that makes him want to laugh or seek out Myrtle for some sympathy; apparently he’s going to have to suffer through something that — seven years ago — he used to fantasise about. But it’ll be fine, he tells himself. He’s gotten good at controlling his tongue, post-war. If necessary, he’ll simply listen to Potter’s blathering and nod in the right places. 

When he arrives at their room, he opens the door cautiously — and stops. And stares.

The Christmas tree he’d — in a moment of stupid, uncharacteristic impulsivity — set up on Potter’s side of the room has been decorated. Not with holly berries and charmed candles, not with ribbons and ornaments that snow or shimmer when touched, but with… strange, shiny silver threading, and red and gold hanging orbs, and… lights, wound around it that twinkle in different colours. It’s disconcertingly unkempt but merry and bright, and for some reason seems _exactly_ how he would have pictured Potter decorating his tree — if Draco’d ever known that trees could be decorated that way. 

He takes a deep breath, unable to draw his eyes away for a long moment, and with more than half a mind to Vanish the whole thing, which is so garish, it’ll inevitably prove to be distracting for the rest of the term. But Potter’s already asleep, bed curtains drawn loosely, and as much as Draco enjoys pissing him off, the idea of getting rid of the tree he _worked_ on seems unnecessarily rude. 

Draco eyes him through the break in the bed hangings; Potter sleeps burrowed tight under his covers, hunched against his pillow, with only the sliver of shoulder peeking out. Trying to escape the cold, perhaps, though the eighth year dorms are warmer than Slytherin’s ever were. Draco changes swiftly and slides into bed, palming his wand, because fuck if he’s going to take _Weasley’s_ word for it that Potter won’t slaughter him in his sleep.

He lays tensely for a long time before finally drifting off, jerking awake at the slightest sound, but Potter doesn’t rouse to play chess, or talk, or murder him. Not that night. Or for several after.

Then one night, he does.

***

“Hey Draco.”

“Hmm, wha—” Draco blinks, eyes grainy, coming back from a rare dream of flying — Quidditch kit on and the crowd in the stands roaring — that probably wouldn’t have caused him to wake covered in a cold sweat. He hears a rustle and fumbles for his wand, pulling it from beneath his pillow.

“Hi.”

“Potter?” Sitting up and rubbing sleep from his eyes with his free hand, Draco peers into the darkness of their room, lit only by the faint glow of Potter’s tree in the corner — fairy lights, Potter had offered when he saw Draco looking at them, as though Draco enquired. He somehow mimicked muggle electricity to get them to shine, and Draco had wanted to ask how the fairies worked into it, but decided there was no point in encouraging conversation if he didn’t have to.

“Hi,” Potter says again. He looks at Draco, tilting his head curiously to the side, and Draco wakes a little more fully, the cobwebs clearing from his mind as he studies Potter in return.

“Hi,” Draco says warily. Potter smiles cheerfully, arms loose at his sides, and he looks wholly relaxed, even _happy_ standing next to Draco’s bed in nothing but his flannel bottoms, but there’s something...off, as well.

“What are you doing?”

An astonished, hiccupy little laugh escapes Draco’s throat before he can catch it. He peers closer at Potter. “Giving birth; you?”

“Oh. I thought Ron was kidding about that. I didn’t even know you were pregnant,” Potter says and Draco snorts. 

“It’s my genes; Malfoy men carry our pregnancies well. You should go back to bed — this is bound to get loud and messy,” he says, then stifles a gasp when Potter promptly climbs onto his bed — climbs _over_ him — and sits down.

“I can help!”

Draco’s body goes taut. Potter sits with his legs criss-crossed, and the toes of one foot brush Draco’s thigh through his blankets. “N-no, thank you.”

“Okay,” Potter says, agreeable as anything. Draco suddenly understands Weasley’s anxiety, his threats, in a real way; this Potter is completely...unguarded. 

Not something the public — or Potter’s enemies — should know about the Saviour of the wizarding world. 

Draco swallows, stomach churning. “Potter,” he says carefully, “wouldn’t you be more comfortable going back to bed? It’s cold.”

“A little, I guess,” Potter says. Then, to Draco’s horror, says “Thanks.”

And climbs under the covers.

Gaping, Draco clutches his wand tighter, until he fears the slender wood might crack. “I meant your _own_ bed,” he says, struggling for a modicum of control when his heart is apparently trying to rattle out of his chest. 

“This _is_ my bed,” Potter says. He blinks, obviously confused over Draco’s stupidity and Draco watches the way his lashes flutter and tangle — dark, surprisingly long — without his glasses in place to obscure the gesture. He’s almost bland like this, if Potter could ever be called such a thing, and Draco searches his eyes to see if perhaps Potter and Weasley have just been taking the piss, only to see a strange wobble to Potter’s eyes. Green as ever, even in the dim glow from the fairy lights, they stare at Draco’s face as if looking into the distance and, every few seconds, tremble of their own accord. REM sleep, Draco thinks with a sharp inhale.

“Right,” he says after a moment. “Should I move, then?”

“I like your hair,” Potter says. “Do you want to play chess?”

“I— what?” Draco automatically reaches up to comb his fingers through his hair, still processing as Potter suddenly reaches out a hand, only for his trunk to pop open. A wooden box flies out and into Potter’s waiting catch. 

“Chess. It’s a game with knights and queens and prawns.”

“Pawns,” Draco corrects, unwillingly amused and not a little fascinated with Potter’s thoughtless use of wandless magic.

“Okay.” Potter quickly sets up the board between them, scooting back on the mattress to allow for more space, and explains the finer points of the game, which basically consists of Potter explaining the backgrounds of the pieces and making up a story about them: the queens are the smartest so the bishops are in love with them, the prawns always sacrifice themselves for those they love, and the tiny castles are where the knights live, so each knight gets one because it’s important to have a home. When Draco asks about the kings, Potter looks at him like he’s daft. “They’re married.”

“Oh.”

Another several minutes pass and Draco listens to Potter’s surprisingly involved story, mind wandering. When Potter runs down, he packs up the board calmly, not a single piece moved — and it’s a good thing the board is Muggle, or he’d have to deal with a revolt from the pieces, for having been woken without even getting to battle — and sends it flying back into his trunk, which slams shut.

“That’s chess? Who won?”

“I’ve gotten better at it than Ron,” Potter says smugly, and Draco’s mouth twitches. 

“I’d dare say you’re better at a lot of things than, uhm, Ron.”

“Well, he’s a fair flyer, but I’m probably better at that,” Potter says.

“And that’s all? Nothing else about you stands out?” Draco prods, curious. Potter can’t really believe that—

“My cock might be bigger,” Potter says thoughtfully. “But when we measured, I didn’t look, and he gave a number that couldn’t possibly be right.”

Draco hears the words slowly, as if his mind needs time to savour them. “Y-you _measured._ ”

“Well, yeah. Haven’t you ever measured?”

Sure, like Draco is going to fall for admitting to _that_ — whether Potter is asleep or not.

“Of course I haven’t,” he says with great dignity.

“Also I know how to cook, but Ron’s a better baker ‘cause I was never allowed to do that part,” Potter continues blithely.

“And… these are your only strengths,” Draco checks. “Cooking, and flying, and,” he coughs a little, “chess playing and a giant cock.”

“It’s not giant. Probably just a bit larger than average,” Potter says. Draco’s gaze slides downward of its own accord, then immediately flies back up to Potter’s disconcertingly shifting eyes. “I’m also good at defence stuff.”

“Quite,” Draco agrees drily. Forehead. Potter’s forehead is a safe place to look. Except for the scar, which is… kind of cooler than Draco has ever allowed himself to admit, now that he’s able to look at it without getting caught, Potter’s normally unruly hair raked back as it is. Draco narrows his eyes, but Potter simply sits there, waiting, and it can’t… it’s not like he’ll… _remember_ or anything, so Draco blurts, “Can I touch it?”

“My cock? S—”

“No!” Draco yelps, feeling momentarily faint. He realises that Potter hadn’t processed where Draco had been looking. “Your scar.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s okay too.”

And though Draco is certain that nothing he ever does in his life will be as bad an idea as taking the Dark Mark had been, a knot of _don’t even think about it_ forms in his chest even as he finds himself reaching out with two fingers to lightly trace the zig-zag of Potter’s scar. Potter makes a low, approving sound and Draco’s breath starts to come light and fast as he explores the shape and texture — slightly ropy, but lying flat against his skin — of the scar he’s stared at for years. 

“That feels nice,” Potter says, voice low and a little hazy. “Usually I don’t let people touch it.”

Guiltily, Draco pulls his hand away. He clears his throat. “Well, thanks,” he says awkwardly. His fingertips still tingle from the contact.

“Sure. Can I touch your Mark?”

Draco blanches; he voice comes out in an appalled whisper. “What?”

“Your Dark Mark,” Potter says simply, as though the question isn’t likely to slice Draco open. But he can still feel the weave of Potter’s lightning bolt against his fingers, so he nods wordlessly — fair is fair — and holds out his left arm. Potter takes it, gripping lightly under Draco’s wrist, and skims the material of his sleeve up, bunching it toward the crook of Draco’s elbow. He traces the dark lines gently, a worried little wrinkle forming just above the bridge of his nose. “Do you still think of Muggles like—”

“ _No!_ ” Draco says, too loudly. His arm jerks in Potter’s grasp, his heart racing. There’s no possible way to explain, he thinks, not in a way someone like Potter could understand, but— “No. I… I saw too much, last year. The year before.”

“Like what?” Potter asks, sounding barely interested, fingers petting the inside of Draco’s forearm.

Draco licks his lips. His voice comes out husky. “Like. Like people dying. I’d not been told that they would die,” he says, the same way he has to himself for the two years. But aloud, it sounds different — it sounds like a _lie_ — and so he blurts, “I mean, I knew, I think. I knew that some would.”

“‘Course you did.” Still petting.

“Yeah. I just didn’t know that… That it would be…” Draco searches for the right words, the ones that might excuse things, but what comes out is so awful he feels sick for how true they feel. “That it would be people fighting us. Who didn’t care how things were supposed to be. That the rest would be cast out, their magic t-taken; not children and random Muggles and, and…”

“People I loved died fighting Voldemort’s side,” Potter says in that same distant tone, fingers still gentle.

Shivering, Draco forces himself not to pull away — what would be the point? And it… doesn’t hurt, the way he’d feared, not like the thoughts swirling in Draco’s mind. In fact, Potter’s touch is almost soothing, his thumb pressed into the middle of the death’s head. 

“I know. I’m so sorry,” Draco whispers, the grief and guilt swelling up in his throat. And it’s not enough — not enough to cover all of those lives taken with indifferent green flashes, their bodies desecrated as snake food; not enough to hide his own cowardice, which he’d come to learn smelt of copper and sounded like the insane laughter of his aunt and Hermione Granger’s screams; not enough to blanket the images of Fred Weasley, and Remus Lupin, and Colin Creevy, and so many others that Draco could name in his sleep and sometimes does. But, he acknowledges painfully, there’s not much else he _can_ say, except, “I would take it back if I could. I would take all of it back.”

Potter looks up at him, eyes centred on Draco’s forehead. They wobble, pupils large in the dark of the room, and then Potter says, “I know you would,” so simply that Draco feels split in two from it, Potter’s declaration announcing him as a before-and-after Draco, somehow making it seem true.

After a minute, Potter drops Draco’s arm; Draco shakes his sleeve down. It takes him a few seconds, perhaps longer, to level out his expression and compartmentalise the way he’s learned, but when he finally does, he looks up at Potter warily, wanting this to be over.

Potter smiles. “Thanks. What are you going to do?”

“To fix things?” Draco asks, throat tight. What can he say? That he does what he can in little ways? How would that matter _at all_? 

“No, just. What are you going to _do?_ ”

Mystified, Draco considers. “Tomorrow?” 

“For a living,” Potter says, placid and patient.

“Oh.” Relieved, Draco adjusts his pillow against the headboard and sits back against it, wondering why Potter wants to know. Then again, part of his chess story involved one of the married kings having been a prawn who died in the woods — the other, Draco remembers with a wince, is the one who made all the wrong choices, and “his promotion to king is really strange” — so it’s probably not very practical to assume any of this is supposed to make sense. “I think I’d like Curse Breaking,” he says at last, surprised at his own honesty. But again, it’s not as if Potter will remember. “You?”

He hopes.

“I have to be an Auror,” Potter says, which is no great shock. Draco starts to roll his eyes, then stops.

“You _have_ to be?”

“Uh huh.” Potter smiles, faintly ironic, which is disconcerting as the rest of his face is sort of slack. “I killed Voldemort. Everyone expects it.”

“I…” Draco licks his lips, not remotely comfortable with how personal this conversation has gotten. “What would you _like_ to do? Professional Quidditch?”

“No, I’m already too famous,” he says bluntly. “Curse Breaking sounds kind of neat; you get to travel and stuff—”

“Yes, you do,” Draco says, startled. It’s one of the main reasons he’s drawn to such a career — that, and that he likes puzzles. 

“—But my Arithmancy marks wouldn’t be up to snuff, and anyway I should probably avoid curses for awhile,” he says, touching his scar. Draco winces and nods. “I think I’d like to be a journalist.”

“What?” Draco asks, blinking. 

“I like writing,” Potter says with a tiny uptick in tone indicating the sleep version of enthusiasm. “And I feel like a lot of people get away with a lot of things.”

“You want to work for the _Prophet_?” Draco clarifies, shocked. He realises his jaw is dangling, and closes his mouth with a click of teeth.

Potter chuckles, idly scratching the dark furring of hair below his belly button. Draco tries not to stare at it, or at the way it disappears beneath his ratty flannels, or the way Potter’s lightly tanned stomach tightens, or at the way—

“No,” Potter says, and Draco jerks his eyes up, flushing. “Maybe I’d start my own paper or something. Or work for the Quibbler.”

“Have you ever written _anything_ before?” Draco asks derisively, coming back to himself. 

“Yeah, I’ve been writing all summer.” Potter lashes out a hand and a large, leatherbound book flies into it. He passes it over, and Draco looks down, opening it to stare at Potter’s messy scrawl, then glances back up to his face. “Plus, I get hunches about people. I got pretty good at following you a couple of years ago.”

Suddenly chilled again, Draco pushes the book back to Potter. “You shouldn’t just show this to people,” he says quietly.

“I don’t mind. It’s just my diary,” Potter says. “I’ve some ideas in it for articles. There’s still a lot of corruption in the Ministry. It takes time to weed it out.”

“I can’t read this,” Draco insists, throat dry. 

“I’m a good writer,” Potter counters, frowning.

Nervous, Draco calculates how offended a sleeping person has to be to frown. “I know,” he says. “I read it. It’s really good.”

“Thanks!” Potter levitates the book back to his desk, where it drops with a thud. “I’m tired.”

“Me too,” Draco says, relieved. 

“Do you wank before you sleep?”

Abruptly less relieved than on the verge of a heart attack, Draco stares at him. His voice cracks. “What?”

“Wank. I like a wank before I sleep.” The hand resting on Potter’s stomach slides lower and no this cannot be happening; Draco deserves a lot of punishment, perhaps — he already suffered through the baring of his soul — but this cannot be one of them. 

“Um.”

“Go ahead,” Potter says, nodding as though he’s telling Draco to finish his supper. 

“No, thank you,” Draco says, pressing a panicked hand over his twitching cock. Potter’s hand slides under his waistband. 

And begins moving.

“No, no, no, you can’t do that here,” Draco says, words tumbling over one another. “You have to go back to your own bed!”

“This _is_ my bed,” Potter says again and Draco decides _he_ must be asleep… Or in hell, because Potter’s voice is _breathless_ and his hand is _moving_. The muscles in his forearm twist and bunch, and if Draco looks, he can see the shape of—

“I’ll wake you!” he says — menacingly, he hopes. He fumbles for his wand and brandishes it. Potter looks distantly amused and a little confused.

“Just wank with me, _uhhnnnn_ , Draco,” he says.

“I’m a pureblood,” Draco says, then blinks. Potter does too, obviously just as confused to what that means as Draco is.

“I’m a halfblood.” Potter’s hand continues it’s smooth slide, jostling in his bottoms. 

“I’m, I’m… We take things slowly,” Draco says, desperate. Potter’s hand on his cock is making _sounds_ now, a soft, moist slapping that makes Draco want to hex his ears shut. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about — rubbish his great-grandfather’s portrait spouted once upon a time — but Potter seems to accept the excuse.

“You can watch, then,” Potter tells him with short, friendly grunts. And Draco wants to — _fuck_ , he _wants_ to, but...

He looks down again, at the rise and fall of Potter’s hand under his flannels, the roundness of the head of his cock plainly visible through the thin material. There’s a tiny, damp spot in the red fabric, and Draco wonders if he should brandish his wand at himself, instead; just Stun himself until this whole thing is over, perhaps. He presses harder against his cock, which has risen further against his bottoms, and emits a small whinge at how… _good_ it feels.

“I’m going to go to sleep,” he says, his voice coming out raspy. He _can’t_ wake Potter. The castle will explode. Or something.

Potter grunts again, sounding cheerful through his panting when he says, “Okay. G’night.”

With one last horrified glance down, Draco scoots further under the blankets and rolls to face away. He resolutely takes his hand off his groin and his prick throbs mournfully as the _slap, slap_ of Potter’s wanking grows louder in the sudden quiet of the room. Draco folds his pillow around his ears, the insidious thought that _Potter would never know_ drifting through his mind. He contemplates that for a long moment, the rustle and shift of the bed behind him driving him to the brink of madness. Because Potter _wouldn’t_ know. And it’s not as if Draco’d... orchestrated it, in any way. Which means that it’d be Potter’s own damn fault if he rolled back over and shoved his bottoms down. It would barely take anything, he knows; his cock is slick at the slit, trying to poke out above the waistband of his pyjamas. Hell, he could probably roll onto his stomach and come just from rutting against the mattress once or twice.

And he’s never been one to cling to his morals in the face of something he wanted, anyway.

Not that he wants _Potter_.

Still...

He’s still debating when he hears a low, sharp cry filter in through the block of the pillow. The mattress jerks several times in a row; Draco whimpers, screwing his eyes shut against the burn of temptation, the painful need of his own body. 

Silence falls, ringing loud over the thundering in Draco’s ears for several protracted minutes, or years, or... lifetimes. Finally, he loosens his grip on the pillow around his head and looks around, warily. Potter sits on his knees, gazing distantly at his lit-up tree. The damp patch of fabric has spread, darkening the material to burgundy. Draco swallows, his throat scratchy, his prick still begging for release. 

“Potter?”

Potter twitches. He yawns and waves a hand over his crotch, eliminating the wet spot — _Potter’s come,_ Draco’s mind whispers, earning another warning jerk from his cock. _Potter just came. In my bed._ — and looks at Draco’s forehead. 

“G’night, Draco.”

“Uh, Goodnight,” Draco returns, his voice worryingly thready. 

Potter, face sated, climbs out of Draco’s bed on the opposite side. He stands for a moment, then starts for the door only to stop, bewildered, and turn around. He seems to spot his own bed, then mumbles, “Oh, there it is,” before heading over and sprawling out on top of his mattress. His eyes immediately fall shut, and a bare moment later, he’s breathing shallowly, mouth open, the dark fans of his lashes fluttering softly against his cheek. He looks relaxed and calm, all of that fascinating fire inside him sated for the moment and doing nothing to detract from his… _beauty_ , Draco thinks miserably. 

He immediately shoves the word into the recesses of his mind, not quite sure how he let it escape again.

Draco stares at him for a long minute, sheepishly letting his hand wander down to his prick again, which still feels too heavy, too full. He reaches inside his pyjamas, eyes on Potter’s chest as it rises and falls, and curls a tight hand around his prick, feeling the slick of his precome as he drags his foreskin back in a tentative stroke. He looks at the crotch of Potter’s flannels, at the shape of his softened prick resting against his thigh through the material, and pulls at his erection slowly, trying to keep his breath low and quiet even as his climax rises in him, sharp and fast. His balls tighten up, tingling close against his body, and he moves his hand faster, groaning as low as he can manage when his cock jerks in his hand, hot and thick, and pulses out the first shot of semen. He works his hand faster, wanking with the same abandon Potter seemed to have as he milks his orgasm, rolling his hand down over the head of his cock and slipping his thumb firmly against the glans on every stroke as he shudders in near silence, half ashamed and half more turned on than he’s ever been in his life.

When it’s over, he grabs for his wand and casts a quick cleaning charm over himself; then, as an afterthought, spells Potter’s rumpled covers over him and closes his bed hangings. His body still thrums with tiny, delicious aftershocks, but he forces himself to lay back down, forces his eyes closed, forces himself to think about nothing more than the ins and outs of his own breath. Slowly, his heart steadies, and Draco thinks about what Weasley said: Potter liked a bit of chess and some talking. Weasley surely would have told him if there’d been wanking involved. 

Which makes this an aberration, nothing to be concerned about. Anyway, it’s not like he did anything wrong, he thinks. He’s wanked over thoughts of… people… before. Usually never staring at them, after they’d wanked in his bed, but still. 

He can manage this. He _is_ a Slytherin, after all.

***

Two weeks later, and Draco is losing his goddamned mind.

For not _only_ has Potter’s sleepwalking continued, his sleep wanking has as well, and he’s started… _touching_ Draco, with his free hand. Just a light hand coasting exploratively over Draco’s waist and rib cage as Draco lies frozen, unable to move or respond until Potter inevitably fucks off to his own bed and falls asleep, allowing Draco to seek a temporary end to his torment.

Until each next night.

But what’s possibly worse — if anything _could_ be — is that Potter has begun speaking to him in the mornings, almost as if the intimacy that’s forged in that hour or so they talk before Potter starts touching himself has sunk into his unconscious mind. The first morning after, it was a simple, furrowed look before his face cleared. Then an easy, “Morning, Malfoy. You going to the Quidditch game later?”

Unable to look at him directly, Draco shook his head. “Why would I?” he asked, as snottily as he could manage.

“For fun?” Potter asked, sounding on the verge of a laugh. 

“I have fun _playing_ Quidditch, not watching others play,” Draco lied. His face was hot.

Potter stayed silent for a moment, then said, “Maybe we could play sometime,” rather ironically, Draco thought, for someone who had played an awful lot with himself the night before.

“I’m busy,” Draco mumbled, before escaping to the loo. 

The following morning, it was a query about what classes Draco had that day, and the next day an interest in what hair potion Draco used. And everything preceded each night by Potter in his bed, talking to him. And wanking.

God, the wanking.

Draco sits with his head in his hands as the rest of the students in Advanced Arithmancy collect their things in a flurry of movement and file out. He takes his time, because _one_ student is always disgustingly predictable in wanting to check something with the professor after class, and there’s never another time to find her alone.

As if on cue, Granger stands from her desk and heads over to Professor Vector, her soft timbre curious, her hands gesturing expansively. Professor Vector nods and says a couple of things, pointing to a place on the scroll that’s spread out over her desk, and Granger smiles and nods, then heads back to her desk to grab her bag. Draco glances at the professor, then heads over to Granger’s side.

“Malfoy,” she says evenly, utterly unsurprised. Annoying bint.

“I need to talk to you,” he says. 

“I figured; you’re usually out of here like a shot,” she says lightly, raising her eyebrows.

“It’s harder to aim at a moving target,” he says, satisfied when her lips tighten.

“Who? Who’s doing that?” she snaps. Granger and her _causes_.

Draco waves a hand, dismissing it. “I’m not here for _protection_.”

“It’s _not_ okay,” she insists, hugging her bag to her chest, brown eyes lit with self-righteous anger. “That’s not what we went through everything for.”

He sighs, regretting the joke. The sort of joke. Whatever. “Nevermind, honestly. It’s about Potter.”

Her lower lip disappears between her teeth; she looks as if she’s debating letting Draco get away with the change of subject until his statement hits. “What about Harry?”

“It’s about…” He clears his throat and lowers his voice darting another glance at the professor. “About the sleepwalking.”

“Yes?”

“He’s started again. And...and kept going,” Draco says grimly. His cock swells slightly, and he sits down on a stool at her desk. Granger lowers herself onto the other stool and looks at him expectantly.

“What do you mean?” she asks when Draco doesn’t elaborate.

“He— He—” Draco swallows hard. “He keeps me awake.”

A tiny peal of laughter escapes and she gives him an incredulous glance. “That’s _all?_ ”

“It’s enough,” he snaps. “I’ve got classes.”

Granger jerks her chin up, eyes hardening. “And Harry saved your life. If you’re really _that_ petty, still, to not allow for him to work out his problem for a few hours every night, then I don’t even know what to say. Ron said you were fine with it.”

“A few hours?” Draco asks. He feels off-centre at the reminder of his debt to Potter; it’s the first time any of them have brought it up.

“Well, yes. It used to be almost all night; Ron was having to nap during the day until Harry found the right combination of potions,” Granger says, surprised. “How long is it for you?”

“An hour or so,” Draco says, irritated that he feels soundly chastened. He waits for a second, then takes a breath. “He tells me things.”

Granger’s silence is loaded. “What kind of things?”

Clearing his throat, Draco shakes his head; he doesn’t want to relive Potter’s bland, unaffected chatter about walking through the Forbidden Forest to his death, surrounded only by his dead loved ones. “Just...things. That he’d most likely not want me to know,” Draco admits.

Studying him narrowly, Granger shakes her head. “You’ve changed.”

“I have not!” Draco says, glaring at her.

A slow, smug smile creeps across her face, and Draco wants to repay her for the slap in third year. “If you hadn’t, the whole school would know by now. And Harry trusts you enough not to tell anyone what you learn.”

“Potter doesn’t know I’m learning anything I _shouldn’t_ ; he doesn’t even know he’s sleepwalking, or that I know about _that!_ Weasley told me about it,” Draco says, still glaring. “I think you should tell him to find another potion to repress it.”

“Harry does so know,” she informs him primly, causing him to sit upright. He rubs at the sudden headache forming at his temples. “And anyway, it’s not as simple as another potion.”

“What do you mean, he knows?” Draco demands, loudly enough that Professor Vector looks up from her scrolls. She hooks a dark eyebrow at them, as if only now realising that they’re still in the room, then shrugs and looks back to her paperwork. Draco’s heart flutters hard; he lowers his voice. “And why not?”

“Well, Ron told him that he told you,” Granger says, amused. “We’d told him we would, if he didn’t. He accidentally blew out the windows of the Burrow when Ron’s mum woke him up because he was sleep cooking. Anyway, he said if you were… you-ish about it, he’d make sure you didn’t talk, but he didn’t think you would anyway.”

“He didn’t think I would,” Draco echoes flatly. “Maybe that’s just because he doesn’t think anything he’s telling me could be used… against him,” he forces himself to add. “Maybe he doesn’t even know he’s doing it; Weasley said he might not.”

“No, he definitely knows,” she says, then bites her lip as though she wishes she hadn’t revealed that much. A tinge of pink melts over her cheeks, and she sighs. “He feels funny in the mornings after it happens. And hasn’t he been trying to talk to you? He said as much.”

“I suppose,” Draco says grudgingly, thinking Potter’s strange overtures in the last two weeks. Because honestly, who randomly asks what someone’s favourite colour is as a conversational ice-breaker? It’s not Draco’s fault that he can’t take it seriously.

Then again, he’d thought Potter still didn’t realise he was sleepwalking.

“Alright, then.” Granger stands up, some of her bushy curls falling over her face as she lifts the strap of her back over her head. She graces him with an impersonal smile. “I don’t think I need to reiterate what would happen if Harry suddenly _couldn’t_ trust you. And forget what he or Ron would do; I have my _own_ methods,” she adds, flipping her hair. Draco flinches and she gives him a small wave, then walks out of the classroom at a fast clip. 

He stares after her exasperatedly, only remembering after Professor Vector clears her throat — pointedly indicating that he should leave — that Granger never answered his question about the potions.

***

“Hi,” Potter says, looking up with a curious smile when Draco walks in. 

“Hi,” Draco says back. It comes out brisk, unfriendly, but he’s not exactly used to responding when he’s awake, so it’ll have to do. Potter’s mouth draws down at the address, a confused little gesture that’s not remotely charming at _all_ , even if it does cause crinkles to appear around his mouth, the same as a smile does. Taking a deep breath, Draco nods to the book open on Potter’s desk. “Studying?”

“Er, no.” Potter swiftly closes the book, and Draco winces, recognising it as the diary Potter keeps offering to let him read. Potter tucks it away in his desk drawer, and swivels in his chair. “You’re early,” he says. When Draco slants him a look, his throat turns blotchy. “I just mean, you… Well, I guess I meant that. You usually study at the library until I’m in bed.”

“I’m taking six Newts,” Draco says after a moment. 

“Oh, right, Curse Breaking,” Potter says, then looks at him, bewildered.

Draco pauses, then resumes removing his robes, hanging them neatly and levitating them back to his wardrobe. He loosens his tie and slips off his shoes, then sits on the edge of his bed to face Potter.

“Did you tell me that?” Potter asks, still baffled.

Draco shakes his head. “I’ve mentioned it to some of the professors,” he says, holding his breath. Potter gives a slow nod. “What about you?’

“Aurors,” Potter says, smiling a little. “Obviously.”

“Why obviously?” Draco asks, swallowing.

And really, “stumped,” should not be as good a look on anyone as it is on Potter. He tucks his chin into his chest, his lower lip disappearing between his teeth, brows drawing in at the centre. He looks around, as if searching for an answer, and his eyes land on his little tree, dressed up for hols way too soon. 

“I… You know.” He gives a soft laugh, gesturing. “Funny, Malfoy.”

“I’m serious. Just because you defeated the D— _him_?” Draco shrugs blandly. “I’d think you’d want to get away from doing shit like that, is all.”

Potter’s eyes find him; he looks at Draco consideringly, then nods. “I might have thought about it.”

“Think about it more,” Draco says, throat dry. He stands up and sends his shoes to his wardrobe, then heads around the bed, pointing his wand to the bed hangings to bring them down. They don't shield him greatly from Potter’s gaze, but Potter clears his throat and turns away as Draco disrobes, the way they have each time one of them has had to change. Draco gets into his pyjamas and spells his uniform into one of the laundry bags for the elves to take overnight. When he’s done, he reopens the slate curtains that surround his bed and climbs in with the newest Hitwizard thriller, cracking the spine with satisfaction. He sees Potter slide another look at him and glances up.

“Green,” Draco says.

“What?” Potter looks at Draco’s novel, then back up to his face.

“You asked, this morning. My favourite colour. It’s green,” Draco says, feeling his face heat when Potter’s eyes widen. The tree is at his back and he wears an emerald t-shirt, and Potter's eyes are still the greenest thing in the room. Hastily, lest Potter get the wrong idea, Draco adds, “Slytherin green. You know.”

“Right,” Potter says, doing that surprised/inept/befuddled thing that works so well for him. He rakes a hand through his hair. “Good book?”

“Merlin, Potter, I’m trying to _read,_ ” Draco mumbles unfairly, dropping his eyes to the first page. 

He hears a soft snort for his efforts, and then Potter says, “What’s it about?”

“Hitwizards,” Draco says with an annoyed huff. Potter looks at him patiently, and Draco thinks of sitting at the dinner table with his parents; he thinks of his mother’s warm eyes as she listened to his father recount the plot of a book he had had just finished. He remembers dropping a fork before he was old enough to have learned to let the house-elves bring him a new one, and ducking under the table to see that their ankles were hooked around one anothers — a discreet link of physical contact. He clears his throat, eyes still on the book. “H.W. Evans is trained especially to take down those who’ve gone into deep cover, and while researching his newest mark he discovers a plot to assassinate the Minister by him, but can’t reveal it without first uncovering who the mark _is_ , or be forced to give up his own identity, as well. There’s a whole series of the Hitwizard team.”

“Could I read it when you finish?”

Draco looks up, nibbling on his lip. Potter’s smile is soft and curious and engaged, as though he might really want to borrow the book. Draco glances at the diary Potter has pulled back out of his desk and says, “Fine. If you’ll shut up long enough that I can get past the first page.”

Obedient silence falls, and when Draco pulls his eyes back up minutes later, Potter is nibbling on the nub of his quill and not looking at him. But he’s smiling, and those damned crinkles are there.

***

“Hey, Draco.”

Draco heaves himself up, yawning. Before he thinks what repercussions it could have, he spells on the lamp in the corner, his eyes having started to hurt by the time Potter goes back to his head every night. Fortunately, Potter doesn’t seem fazed by the extra light, dim though it is. Draco yawns.

“Hey, Potter.”

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, you know.” Draco’s jaw pops as his yawn grows. “I’m training this breed of Hippogriffs right here.”

Enthused, Potter climbs into his bed — over him, every _single_ time, goddammit — and crosses his legs in front of him. “I didn’t know you liked Hippogriffs! You made that big fuss.”

“Yes, well.” Draco rubs at his eyes, tone dry. “I still feel like that was more his fault than mine. Although I… _Maybe_... overreacted afterward.”

“Hmmhmm. Witherwings still doesn’t like blonds,” Potter says, nodding sagely. “Won’t let Fleur come near him without glaring.”

“Who’s Witherwings?”

“Oh, Buckbeak,” Potter says blithely. Draco shivers at the name because, in the wrong or not, he _still_ has the occasional flashback of that giant bird screaming and swiping at him. “We renamed him Witherwings when we got him out.”

“I see.” Draco snickers and Potter joins in; one of the things that Draco doesn’t mind about Potter’s bizarre nightly visits is that he tends to laugh at _anything_ , completely comfortable with joining in on the joke even if he doesn’t know what it is. “Hell, you three got away with _everything_. More than I thought, even.”

“Pretty much,” Potter says, looking blandly rueful. “But I almost got killed a lot, too, so…”

“Yeah,” Draco says, throat tightening. His voice drops, and he rubs his palms against the elaborately raised threading on the duvet over his thighs. He sighs. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Plus, Dumbledore and Sirius helped!” Potter says brightly. 

“With Witherwings?”

“Uh huh. Want to play chess?”

Draco reaches out and touches Potter’s wrist lightly when he starts to extend it, then pulls away as if scalded. In truth, the description feels apt; Potter’s skin is covered in a light dusting of hair and is hot under Draco’s fingers, almost feverishly so. He rubs his fingers and thumb together to get rid of the sensation. 

“No,” he says, thinking of Granger and her _Harry knows_ business. “Not tonight.”

“But I like winning,” Potter says with a testy moue of disapproval.

“And you’re very good at it,” Draco says. “But I thought we could talk.” Maybe if he breaks Potter out of his pattern, he’ll be less inclined to… Well.

“Okay.” Potter drops his hand and looks as near to Draco’s eyes as he ever does, unsteady gaze wobbling. He’s way too fucking agreeable, this Potter, but Draco finds himself fascinated all the same. “I used to see you through Voldemort’s eyes, you know.”

“I—” Draco’s hands fist in his duvet; he stares at Potter, aghast. He tries to think of what he _would_ have said, once upon a time. A venomous redirect, perhaps, but none come to mind. Weakly, he says, “You did.”

“Mmhm.” Potter nods sagely at him. “He’d make you use the Cruciatus curse on people.”

Light trembles skitter up Draco’s arms and down his spine; the back of his neck prickles. “I had to.”

“I know,” Potter says. “I saw. There was a time he—”

“Something else,” Draco cuts in desperately. It’s half-one in the sodding morning and he’s not going to be reduced again to near-tears by — in _front of_ — Potter again, asleep though he is. “I meant talk about something else.”

“What?”

Draco swallows, unprepared; he’d thought he’d gotten better at listening to Potter’s darker ramblings, but this is the first time they’ve extended to Draco’s part in the war. “Dinner,” he says inanely. 

“I like dinner,” Potter says, nodding. 

Relieved, Draco nods in return. “I’ve noticed; you’ll eat just about anything.”

“You’re too picky,” Potter says. Draco can’t help the tiny grin that curves his mouth; Potter notices him, too. But the warmth pooling in his chest immediately turns into a hard, cold knot when Potter continues, “It’s probably because you’ve never been starved.”

“I— No,” Draco admits. He was rather hoping for a break from the topic, but better this than being reminded of… Of... “I remember Granger’s interview about how you had to scavenge in the Forest of Dean.”

“You read that?” Potter asks, pleased. He reaches out and ruffles Draco’s hair.

“Don’t do that.” Draco bats at his hand, annoyed with Potter when the gesture becomes a slow, curious pet — and even more with himself for thinking it feels nice. He tries not to think of his father’s head in his mother’s lap. Their soft, warm laughter would mingle as she stroked through his hair after a long day, both of them almost forgetting that Draco was still there, reading his book, as the intimacy had wound around them -- an impenetrable bubble of something breathtakingly sweet.

“It’s soft.”

“Of course it is.” Lowering his hand when his objection has no effect, he allows Potter to sift his fingers through his hair, soft, happy sounds issuing from his throat. The pad of one fingertip grazes Draco’s ear and Draco sucks in a long breath, looking at him. “And of course I did.”

“I thought you wouldn’t care.”

Stung, Draco dips his head and moves it out of Potter’s reach. “That I wouldn’t care how you accomplished everything?”

“Well, you haven’t shown much of an interest.” Potter sighs, looking as bothered as he gets when he’s like this.“You don’t even talk to me.”

“I did tonight,” Draco points out, mind wandering over the last several weeks of term. When they’d been roomed together, he thought Potter would prefer the silence — that, if forced to be around Draco, he’d rather not be reminded of his presence — and was ill-equipped to cope with Potter’s sudden change in attitude toward him, or the sudden influx of smiles and small talk. He’s not exactly proud of his reserve, particularly when he’s been trying so hard to right his wrongs from the previous years, but it felt so much _safer_. At least then. 

At least with Potter.

“You did!” Potter nods rapidly, and Draco gives him a slight smile. “I liked that.”

“Uhm.” Simultaneously pleased and unnerved by Potter’s enthusiasm, Draco searches for a safe subject. His eyes land on the jaunty little tree in the corner of the room. “Why did you decorate your tree that way?” 

“Is it mine?” Potter asks, eyes lighting up. “I thought it was yours; thanks!”

Draco flushes, biting his lip. “It’s just a tree.”

“I didn’t know it was a gift. It’s not even Christmas, yet.”

“It’s— it’s not. I mean, it is,” Draco says, flustered. “I just didn’t… _know_ it was.” He clears his throat. “But, why is it decorated that way?”

“With tinsel and lights?”

“And the orbs,” Draco says, glancing at them. “They don’t do anything. They’re Muggle, right?”

“What are they supposed to do?” Potter asks, not bothering to answer his question. 

Draco sighs and slides out of bed. He pads over to his trunk and finds his tiny holiday bag fit with an invisible extension charm, then opens it and draws out two of his favorite ornaments, carefully only touching the ribbons. He heads back and climbs into bed, then displays it, dangling from his forefinger.

“These,” he says, wondering how the Weasleys decorate their trees, “are Wizarding ornaments. Be careful,” he cautions, when Potter reaches to touch the first. “It’s an antique.”

“It’s pretty,” Potter mumbles, staring at it vaguely. He’s right, too, Draco thinks, turning his eyes to gaze at it. The sphere’s delicately faceted crystal glows dully in the dim light of the room, giving off the faintest pulse of misty blue beyond the immersive black inside. Potter’s fingers hover respectfully, touching only the air around it.

Smiling, Draco says, “Just touch it lightly. Watch.”

Potter closes the small distance between his fingers and the ornament and gasps, a slightly strangled sound falling from his lips when it lights up — first with the yellow burst of sunlight illuminating the centre, then with the planets that appear and begin to rotate around it. The solar system grows smaller as the charm pulls back, revealing the galaxy and then another and another until the ornament is filled with hundreds of tiny, spiral galaxies, all breathtaking colours in the darkness of space. Potter pulls his hand away, making a small, mournful noise when the charm fades.

“You have to keep touching it?”

“No, you can spell it to stay like that, but this is older magic; it shouldn’t be wasted.” Draco shrugs, more pleased than he wants to examine at how obviously Potter likes it. “It glows on its own, anyway.”

“What about the other?”

Draco hesitates, feeling oddly shy even though he’d been the one to bring out the thing in the first place. He holds it out, and Potter touches it carefully, breathing out, “Oh,” into the quiet as he spies the flickering memory appearing of Draco as a newborn, cradled in his mother’s arms. It’s silent, but Draco’s strangely-pointed baby face is red with fury as he cries, and his mother casts a helpless look of amused adoration up at his father, who then lowers onto the bed next to her. They look at Draco together, overwhelming fascination and pride etched over their faces, as well as a tenderness he’s rarely seen them direct at anyone but each other.

“I like this one even better,” Potter says. “Except for your father. You could get rid of that part.”

Snorting, Draco shakes his head, but he smiles to gentle it. “It’s just a memory drawn into stasis,” he says. “One of the Healers at my mother’s beside, I think. We have others; their wedding and such, but they’re far more personal than most.”

“We should put them on our tree,” Potter says.

“It’s _your_ tree, and no,” Draco says, tucking them back into his bag. “They would clash with your garish Muggle decorations.”

“Okay,” Potter says, not looking even a little hurt. Draco rolls his eyes, but grins. “Will you put them on yours?”

“Perhaps,” Draco says, hedging, because the only real reason for his hesitation is not knowing how to share certain parts of himself with Potter. He carefully levitates the bag back to his trunk and closes the lid gently, then turns back to Potter. “Is tinsel the messy silver— Fuck.”

Potter smiles at him vacantly, his hand already having disappeared beneath his bottoms. Draco stares, saliva flooding his mouth as he watches the smooth, jerking motions of Potter’s hand working his own cock.

“I thought—” Draco’s voice comes out husky; he can’t, for some reason unable to pull his eyes away tonight. Potter _feels funny in the mornings_ he reminds himself; Granger said. Maybe that’s because he… knows. On some level. He must. _Draco_ would, he’s sure, be aware of having wanked in the middle of the night. How could someone not be?

Heavy justifications aside, he can’t shake the conflicted feeling when Potter gives a soft, warm moan, sweet as treacle. Draco inhales and looks up; Potter’s eyes are on him — flickering how they do, but _on him_ — and the heat in his sleepy gaze is worse than the burn on the soles of his feet as he and Potter had flown above the Fiendfyre. 

“What did you think?” Potter asks and if not for the breathlessness in his tone he’d sound merely curious. “About your ornament?”

“I thought you wouldn’t do— that,” Draco blurts. “Tonight.”

“I like wanking,” Potter says innocently. Draco blinks at him, an untempered laugh of disbelief bursting out. “It, mmm, feels really good. You should try it.”

“I have,” Draco says, and Salazar if he’s not gone just as breathless as Potter. His prick rises heavily against his bottoms, begging to be touched. Potter reaches out and grips his shoulder, eyes closing for a moment, fingers biting into Draco’s muscle as Draco goes tense with uncertainty. “You keep touching me.”

“I like, _ah_ , touching you.” The hand cupping his shoulder gives a little squeeze as if to make a point.

“I’m a wizard,” Draco says softly, letting his eyes wander again to where Potter’s strokes are getting longer and — if the quickening of his breath can be trusted — harder, too. Because he’s asked himself a dozen times a day since this started, and because Potter’s already doing what he _is_ , Draco gulps and adds, “Not a witch.”

“I like wizards too,” Potter says. “Don’t you?”

Draco closes his eyes briefly, head swimming. “Just wizards,” he whispers, sneaking a hand to press over his prick through his bottoms. 

“Yeah,” Potter says on a grunt. “Hey, I’m gonna come.”

“Okay,” Draco says faintly. 

He should lay down and roll over, shouldn’t even _contemplate_ looking; he should put the pillow ‘round his head like he has for a sodding fortnight and let Potter finish his business and go to bed. But Potter’s hand is still tight on his shoulder, his not-entirely-focused eyes still hot on Draco’s face. He cries out softly, the bed bouncing a little as his hips thrust, and then his neck arches, head falling back. He releases Draco’s shoulder and reaches down to — oh shit, oh _fuck_ — yank his waistband lower as he comes. Draco’s face burns, eyes unblinking as he takes in Potter’s cock, already spurting ribbons of come over his rapidly moving fist. Potter’s prick is long, red, and curves up toward his belly. It looks thick enough for a heavy mouthful, Draco thinks, and the burn in his cheeks instantly becomes a blaze that spreads down his throat and over his chest. He’s never _done_ that before, but watching Potter as he finishes, stroking out the last dribbles of fluid, makes him desperate to try.

They’re both breathing heavily when Potter is done, and Potter lifts up his waistband as casually as he does the blankets when he climbs into Draco’s bed every night. He wipes the mess on his hand over his groin with a happy little sigh, then turns his dazed eyes to Draco. 

“You should go back to your bed now,” Draco says hoarsely. He can barely move for fear that he’ll come untouched in his pyjamas. He tries to gentle his voice into something more concerned and less _please let me stare at that thing for a few more seconds_ and says, “You’ve had your wank, so it’s time to sleep.”

Potter waves a sleepy hand over his crotch and Vanishes the mess, blinking at him hazily. “But you’re still hard.”

“I am not.” Draco licks his lips, pretty sure he’s never been harder. A rather new phenomenon he’s experienced every single night recently, but… “I carry a shrunken broom in my pocket.”

“No,” Potter insists, blast him; for some reason he doesn’t seem as inclined to believe Draco’s lies after he wanks. Before Draco can stop him, he reaches out to give Draco’s erection a poke with one finger. Draco bleats out a shocked sound, managing not to come by the barest thread of control, and catches Potter’s wrist. Potter frowns. “You’re _hard._ ” He tilts his head. “D’you not know how?” he asks.

“I just… I just like privacy to do...that,” Draco says with some effort.

“Oh. But you could touch me this way,” Potter says. The wrist in Draco’s hand flips, Potter’s fingers catching and encircling Draco’s. He tugs Draco’s hand forward and presses it to his cock through his flannels. The motion of leaning forward pops Draco’s prick tight between his stomach and the low-riding waistband of his silky bottoms, pinching the head in just the right way; he moans and feels the pulse of his orgasm start, fingers closing automatically over the shape of Potter’s prick just for something to cling to.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says on a low moan, giving up. He feels the warmth spread as he shoots all over his stomach and shirt, cock jerking, his hand stroking over Potter’s length. Potter keeps his hand firm over Draco’s, watching him as Draco gasps and — fuck it — brings his free hand to rub over his own cock to wring out the rest of his climax, finally sagging when the pleasure starts to ebb. “Fuck.”

“Didn’t that feel good?” Potter asks practically, finally releasing his hand. Draco leaves it for a moment — he’s too weak to move, is the thing — and strokes over Potter’s semi-flaccid prick appreciatively a few more times before shakily drawing away.

“Yeah,” Draco says, unable to look at him. He reaches for his wand, but feels the thoughtless tease of magic over his groin and stomach, drying him, and looks up to see Potter blinking and yawning and flapping his hand in Draco’s direction. 

“Okay, g’night!” Potter says, climbing off the bed. He looks around, lost, then smiles at Draco before staggering to his own bed and falling on it, unresponsive within seconds. 

“Goodnight,” Draco echoes into the quiet of the room, wondering what the fuck just happened. _He_ feels not a little lost too, only the heavy, pleasant throb of his prick reminding him that he’s not dreaming. 

Imagining his hand on another boy’s cock is not so different from the reality, apparently, but for the emptiness of the transaction. There was no snogging, no warm breath on his neck, no lean, flat chest against his own; all of his need had been reduced to a piece of elastic and a sleeping Potter’s insistence on being the most inappropriate person alive, and while he certainly doesn’t count it as his first… _time_ , or anything, he can’t help but feel a bloom of disappointment over the experience.

He slowly lays back down and spells the lights off, determined to talk to Potter about this mess in the morning.

***

“Jesus, Malfoy, could you get any creepier?”

Draco starts, about to object about how entirely _unfair_ that is, given the circumstances, before realising that he’s been staring at Potter’s sleeping form, slack-jawed, for who knows how many minutes now. 

He’d had only meant to glance at Potter upon his return from the showers, to assess whether it was worth waking him, really. But there was something about the way Potter’s head rested against his pillow that caught his eye, something he needed to figure out. A softness in his relaxed, faintly darkened jaw, maybe, the edge of childhood being worn away by the years, turning it harder and squarer, even in his sleep. Draco’s never had a soft jaw; he’s always liked his angles — _A very patrician bone structure you have, my love,_ his mother used to tell him indulgently — but he can see that Potter will soon be entirely angular in his own right. The natural affability of youth on his face is fading, and it makes Draco uncomfortable for reasons he can’t fathom, not the least of which is that he can’t help but wonder if the softness that Potter’s face has _always_ held — even at his thinnest, his most stark — will fade completely with it, too.

Then there was the fact that Potter had kicked off his covers, his bottoms riding down below his hips, baring the rangy line of his back and a couple of centimetres of the crevice of his arse, the shadow of which was oddly tantalising. He had...dimples, right above the plump curve of muscle, near the small of his back, and if Draco had gotten distracted for a few moments— well, at least it was less creepy than sleep wanking.

But not, apparently, to Potter, who stares at him blearily for a few beats before yawning. He reaches for his glasses on his nightstand and shoves them on, and Draco finally feels his limbs unlock.

“Christmas tree,” he says with a vague gesture, then promptly winces. There are _reasons_ Slytherins are taught to think before speaking, and avoiding looking foolish is not the least of them.

“What?” Potter sits up, rubbing a palm against the bristle on his chin. He looks at each Christmas tree in turn, then back at Draco questioningly.

“I, oh. I thought your fairies were flickering,” Draco mutters, thinking fast. Which isn’t easy when his brain feels just a tiny bit scrambled, having Potter watch him so intently while he’s awake. “That usually means they’re unhealthy. So I thought I would check.”

“Uh, okay.” Potter tilts a smile at him. “Only…”

“What?” Draco draws himself up to his full height, the better to haughtily look down his nose at Potter, who seems frustratingly amused. “I assure you I’m fully capable of looking after a simple _fairy_ or two.”

“No, I just.” Potter laughs a little; he gets up, hiking up his pyjamas thoughtlessly — useless things that they are, they slide right back down to expose the sharp cut of his hipbones — and walks over to his tree, one finger lifting a fairy light. “First, it’s just a term. No fairies are being harmed in the lighting of this tree,” he says, and based on Potter’s joking tone, Draco probably shouldn’t be so relieved. “Second, the tree is here. I sleep… There.” He points to the direction Draco is still half facing, and suddenly Draco’s face is so hot he wouldn’t be surprised if a thousand fairy eggs were _hatching_ on the planes of his cheeks. He gives Potter his best withering look and stalks over to his side of the room.

“You made a _noise_ ,” he says defensively, jerking his clothing out of his wardrobe. “I turned to _look_.”

“Oh.” The humorous expression on Potter’s face fades, turning sour. “Sorry.”

Draco sighs, pausing in the act of decimating his careful organization of shirts. He pinches his brow and looks at Potter with what he hopes reads as apology; while _he’s_ always liked the angles of his face, they do tend to give the wrong idea to people who don’t know him. But Potter seems to relax a bit, shrugging uncomfortably and fiddling with a reflective red orb hanging from his tree. 

“You have nightmares,” Draco says. It’s as good an opportunity to bring up Potter’s sleep habits as any.

“You do too,” Potter says, hunching a little. It puts Draco on his back foot, this feeling that Potter’s weaknesses are just as prevalent as his own; even more, that Potter is _aware_ of that.

“Yeah.” Draco stills and copies his shrug when Potter darts his eyes over. He stops rifling uselessly through his wardrobe and sits on his bed, making sure his robe is closed decently before he takes a deep breath and says, “Sleep hasn’t been...easy.”

A flicker of something — irritation, perhaps, or embarrassment — flashes over Potter’s face. He gives a heavy sigh. “I guess it wouldn’t be for you, either,” he says grudgingly. 

Here, Draco flounders, wondering how exactly he can segue from _this_ topic to _sleepwanking_. But he’s gotten this far — bringing it up has been no easy feat — so he takes another long gulp of air and blurts, “Some sleep problems are more unusual than nightmares.”

Potter gives him a sharp glance, mouth flattening into a thin line, and Draco finds himself leaning back a little, even though Potter stands halfway across the room from him. He looks and, with relief, sees the hilt of Potter’s wand peeking out from under his pillow... just before Potter’s sleeping use of wandless magic flashes through his mind again. He grimaces and opens his mouth, only to be interrupted.

“I’d rather not.”

“Not what?” Draco asks, flustered.

“Talk about it,” Potter says flatly. He looks away, jaw tight. Then, “What Ron told you. If I’m… If there’s… If…”

Draco observes him for a moment, his uncomfortably tense stance, his hands fisted at his sides. Carefully, he says, “What if there’s something you need to know?”

“I know enough.”

“I don’t think you do,” Draco says, controlling the urge to smirk.

“Look,” Potter tells him, abruptly out of patience, “you could, I don’t know, ward me into my bed if I’m such a bother. But I feel better, okay?” he snaps defensively. “I feel better in the mornings, about...things. And unless I’m using you for hex practice, I _don’t want to know_.”

 _That’s not the kind of practice you’re using me for,_ Draco thinks, suddenly weary. “Potter.”

“No.”

“But—”

“I will Silence you,” Potter says, glaring at him. Draco sighs and rubs a hand over his face, because only Potter would ever, _ever_ rather not know that he’s routinely doing something that he’d want to kill Draco for allowing. “Want to go to Hogsmeade?”

“I— what?”

Though a scowl lingers on Potter’s face, his voice is low and hesitant as he repeats himself. Draco sneaks a hand to his thigh and subtly pinches it.

“What’s in Hogsmeade?” he asks suspiciously, when the pinch hurts.

Potter’s face loses its tension, and he looks at Draco like he’s daft. “Shops? Places to eat? A chance to not spend the whole day studying?”

“Please,” Draco says with a bored eyeroll. Mostly because he’s having trouble coming up with a response. It sounds like a… Well, like Potter wants to… He shakes his head, snorting.

“Is that a no?” Potter asks, and Draco has the absurd thought that Potter must have built a complete immunity toward the Malfoy eyeroll the way he has with Imperius. Not that Draco watches Potter in Defence lately, or anything.

“I do more than study,” Draco says instead of answering, then tries to remember if that’s true. When was the last time he did something more than study? Other than his nocturnal activities with Potter, and writing twice a week to his mother and Pansy, he can’t quite remember. 

“Show me, then,” Potter says with a gleam to his eye that makes Draco want to bring up his sleep habits again, in an entirely different way. 

“Fine,” he says instead, huffing a little, face warm with something like pleasure — even though Potter’s only inviting him along to change the subject. But if he goes along with Potter’s bizarre invitation, he’ll have more time to pester him for answers. He stands and starts searching through his wardrobe again for his pale blue cashmere jumper. “But you’re paying for lunch.”

“Well, o’course,” Potter mumbles. He scratches at a small oval scar beneath the blade of his collarbone; his chest and neck darken with a blotchy pink. “I asked you out, I’ll pay.”

Shooting him a narrow look, Draco lowers his bed hangings and slips out of his dressing robe as he tries to figure out how to take that. Potter’s body is still angled toward him — odd — but Draco can’t see his face, can’t tell if that was meant maliciously or what, though the tentative tone in Potter’s voice speaks to the latter. “I do have more than enough gold, still,” Draco finally says, wondering if Potter is pitying the reparations taken from his family’s coffers. “It’s merely the principle of the thing.”

Potter snorts. His voice is strangely breathy, and Draco cocks his head as he pulls on his underpants and shakes out the sharp pleat of the grey trousers he’s picked. “Right, like I said. I invited you, I pay. Especially since you don’t even want to go.”

Draco peeks out from behind the curtain of silk for a second. The flush on Potter’s neck has climbed to saturate his face; his eyes are wide and bright behind the roundness of his frames. Draco frowns. “I never said that.”

“Then.” Potter coughs into his hand, meeting Draco’s eyes. “Then finish getting dressed. I’m going to go take a shower; I’ll be back in a few. We’ll… go out.”

“Okay,” Draco says with a skitter of uncertainty. He bends to step into his trousers, hopping a little when they catch on his foot. Fastening them and grabbing his shirt and jumper, he steps back out and startles, pulling his garments up to his chest, when he realises Potter hasn’t moved from his spot. 

Making a small noise at Draco’s reappearance, Potter whirls on the ball of his bare foot and grabs his towel and terry robe from his shelf, then a bottle of hair potion. He throws the robe on and stalks out of the room, closing the door too hard behind him. Draco swallows hard in the vacuum left behind, the suck of air in Potter’s absence. 

When he gathers himself after a few moments, he walks over to where Potter had been standing and, lightheaded, turns to look. From this angle, he can see the gathered drape of material over the foot of the bed… As well as a break in them, open enough and high enough to expose someone up to their shoulders.

***

Draco jerks to consciousness, alerted to Potter’s presence by the soft tread of his bare feet on the floor, perhaps, or just because he’s come to expect it. He’s tired enough that he considers doing what Potter asked of him days ago — immobilising him in his bed, curtains drawn and warded — but pushes himself up and rubs his eyes. “Hey, Potter.”

“Hi.” He looks at Draco in confusion; Draco rolls his eyes and twitches his blankets down.

“Come on then,” he says, closing his eyes in barely-concealed irritation when Potter folds to a sit on the floor next to Draco’s bedside, eyes distant as he stares down at his knees. Draco yawns and Summons a blanket to toss him. “Well? What’s it to be tonight? Wizarding politics or what we’ll name our respective children?” 

“What _will_ you name them?” Potter asks interestedly.

“I don’t know.” Draco lays his head back on his pillow. “My father calls my mother his flower; his star. Something like that, perhaps. Leo, without the unpleasant lion associations. Castor is nice; it means ‘to shine.’ You?”

“You want to name them so their spouse can have pet names for them?” Potter asks.

“Well, it’s nice, isn’t it?” Draco says, too relaxed to get defensive; it’s a topic better than a lot of nights. “I used to watch them; the way they were with each other. Having those names that only the other could refer to them as, it made it… Nice. I used to think about finding someone who’d call me their dragon,” he says with a small snort. Then, softer, “Now, _Draco_ feels like a familiar title.”

Potter’s quiet for a moment. “Malfoy should, too,” he finally offers. “Potter does. And Harry.”

“Okay, Potter, Harry.” Draco smiles and sees Potter’s mouth twitch in the dark, eyes still trained on his knees. 

“I like James.”

“Of course you do.”

“Or Sirius,” Potter says, and Draco blinks. 

“A star name.”

“Uh huh.”

Draco clears his throat. “It means ‘to glow,’ or ‘scorching.’”

“Sirius did both,” Potter says, and there’s something in his voice that Draco can’t quite believe he hears.

“D-did you… Did _he_ —?” He stutters out, sure he doesn’t really want to know. Except that he _does_ , rather fervently. 

“He was my _godfather_ ,” Potter says in a tone of flat practicality. He pauses. “I thought he was beautiful, but he would never have looked at me that way. I was too young. He loved Remus too much.”

“I don’t know,” Draco says, after he’s gotten over his surprise. “You can look at someone, can want them, and know you can never have them. That you’re not good for them,” he says. Then, though it’s the most bizarre way he can think of to comfort Potter out of his strange melancholy, he says, “It doesn’t mean he didn’t think of you that way. Look at you.”

“You do, though,” Potter says, voice low. “Look at me; I like it more than a bit.”

“I know.” Draco grimaces. “Shut up.”

“I loved him, though,” Potter continues after a single moment of blessed obedience. “It wasn’t just like that; I was still a kid, and he was like… The moon and stars.”

Draco smiles faintly. “Well, one of those.” He shrugs his free shoulder. “He _was_ beautiful, though. I’ve seen pictures.”

“Yeah. He was your mum’s cousin.”

“Right.”

“How is she?” Potter asks sleepily, finally tilting his head up toward Draco in the dark and blinking at him; Draco barks out an unfunny laugh.

“Heartsick,” he says blithely, far more casual than he’d ever be able to be if Potter _really_ asked. “But what do you care?”

“She saved my life.”

“And you saved hers, and mine, and…” He shakes his head. “That’s not enough, sometimes.” At Potter’s continued silence, Draco sighs and says, “My father’s not approved for visitation for three years. As much as I’d hoped to lo— to have something like they do, someday, it’s...hard on her, okay? And hard to watch.”

“Okay.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “You’re _so_ understanding,” he bites out. “What a hero.”

“Don’t call me that,” Potter says sharply.

“No, sorry,” Draco says instantly, gobsmacked at his own error, checking the windows for rattling. He sits up again, feeling utterly foolish for being lulled into such personal conversation with a sleeping Potter, when they’re not in the act of wanking. That it’s not been about war and death made it easier to forget to tread lightly. “I don’t want to talk about my parents; I should have just said that.”

“You should have just said that,” Potter echoes.

Draco waits for a minute and relaxes when nothing indicates oncoming destruction. “Did you want to… To play chess?” he asks at length; Potter’s continued silence is unnerving.

“No, thanks.” Potter sighs deeply and stands. He looks at Draco with a lopsided smile and Draco meets his gaze to see Potter’s eyes on his, steady and clear...with no telltale wobble that indicates REM sleep. He lifts his hand, letting it hover for a moment, and Draco is still too stunned to flinch away when Potter presumably decides to touch him; he grips Draco’s shoulder, palm warm through the material of Draco’s top, and gives a little squeeze. His pinky grazes the side of Draco’s neck. “G’night. Sorry I woke you.”

“It’s fine,” Draco says roughly, scanning the last several minutes in his mind. Potter nods and looks at him a moment more before moving back to his bed and climbing in, and Draco lays back down stiffly, listening as Potter’s shifts several times to find a comfortable position, his breath slowly evening out until it indicates sleep.

All exhaustion fled, Draco isn’t so lucky.

***

As November slides into December, Draco realises that it’s been weeks since he took a Stinging hex to the back on his way to class, or a furtive Jelly-Leg hex while walking through the Great Hall. Though he’s loathe to give Potter and his cronies much credit, even Draco can’t deny that this probably has a lot to do with their weird, persistent presence around him these days. Not that he _minds_ not having to wash his hair with Veela oil fifteen times and spell it back to its original colour after some arsehole’s gone and “accidentally” spilled Dragon’s tar on it in Potions. But it’s strange, not constantly having to be on guard all the time, to be able to walk down to Hogsmeade with Potter or go flying with him over the Quidditch pitch — which they do with fair frequency — without constantly having to renew his protective charms.

Really, he almost _wishes_ he could bring himself to thank Granger for whatever secretive campaign she must have going to remind people that the so-called Golden Trio won’t stand for vengeful behaviour. If he were a nicer person, he just might come out and say it. But then he’d probably have to formally refuse her help and, well, he’s still Slytherin enough to be pragmatic. If that means spending time with Potter and occasionally her and Weasley, so be it.

Besides, Weasley plays a much better game of chess than Potter does, on the rare night they manage not to threaten each other with drawn wands. He is now, in fact, and Draco glowers as he notes the moment Weasley sees he’s seven moves from checkmate. 

“So how’s Harry doing?” he asks after directing his Knight to take Draco’s Bishop, who crawls off the board resentfully, grimacing in pain. 

“He’s your friend,” Draco says, eyeing the board. He can probably drag this out longer if he… Hm. “Ask him.”

“No, I mean.” Weasley glances over to Granger and Potter on the overstuffed Chesterfield in front of the common room fireplace. “The sleep thing.”

Draco stiffens. He orders his remaining pawn closer to Weasley’s murderous Knight, ready to make the sacrifice so he can shift his Queen; she looks up at him in gratitude. “Again, ask him.”

Weasley clicks his tongue, studying the board in silence as if waiting for Draco to elaborate. But what is he going to say? _”Oh, yes, Weasley. He’s sleeping much better. In fact, there are the occasional nights when he doesn’t wank at all, merely chats about life and returns to his own bed. More often, though, he yanks out his cock and starts stroking himself off while sitting next to me — and hey, I can’t quite help doing it too. Is that what you wanted to know?”_

As if that wouldn’t result in an immediate _Avada Kedavra._

Because, though the frequency of Potter’s sleep wanks has diminished slightly, they’ve somehow increased in both interaction and intent. Potter is never satisfied with Draco trying — feebly, maybe, but _trying_ — to roll away so he isn’t watching anymore, nor with Draco not participating. Usually Draco has to bring himself off because he has the strong suspicion that if he doesn’t, Potter will do it for him, and as turned on as he gets — skin covered in a fine layer of sweat, his cock painfully hard and balls drawn snug against his body — he can’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t be doing _any_ of it. That it’s not quite fair.

Especially since he and Potter are friends, now. Sort of. 

Ever since the first night he’d accidentally awoken Draco and found him willing to talk, Potter no longer hesitates before plying Draco with questions and offering most of his own secrets up for consumption, claiming it helps him get back to sleep, knowing someone is with him. Though Draco knows that Weasley wouldn’t bat a ginger eyelash at having Potter show up at his door at two a.m., Potter chooses to stay with Draco, instead. 

They talk about things while they’re _awake_ now, topics that are impossible to bring up in the blinding light of winters’ day. Cosy shadows and fairy lights accompany the confessions that tumble from them at night, softening the edges of certain subjects enough that they can revisit them occasionally after the sun has come up: Draco’s mother, wintering with Andromeda and Teddy in France because she can’t bear to stay in England and be away from Lucius for the first time in over twenty years; Potter’s writing — which Draco still refuses to read — and how it makes him look more closely at what’s going on around him, how it helps him focus on more than his own thoughts. They share tentative talk of nightmares — once Potter confesses that he sometimes has the urge to go find the Resurrection Stone again, and he doesn’t seem at all fazed when Draco admits to hearing Vince’s death scream on a loop when he gets too close to fire. He sits on the edge of Draco’s bed now, and when Draco said that, he took his hand and held it for a long time, his silence infinitely more comforting than a thousand platitudes would have been.

Sometimes, Draco really wonders if… 

“He may be my friend,” Weasley says, snapping Draco’s attention back to the game — where Weasley’s Knight has, indeed, decimated Draco’s pawn, “but he’s your... y’know.”

“Roommate?” Draco raises his eyebrows, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back. “That means I’m supposed to exchange confidences I learn from him while he _sleeps_ ,” he says pointedly, “with _you?_ ”

Weasley huffs a little, ducking his head. “Not asking for stuff like that. Just wanted to make sure he’s doing alright. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”

Draco glances at Potter; Granger has apparently said something funny, because he’s got his head thrown back on a laugh, Adam’s apple working, mouth creased in wide, easy smile. His eyes are twinkling when he looks over to find Draco watching him, and something happens to his mouth: his smile lessens, but… doesn’t. Draco’s heart stutters like a broken wand trying to force a charm through, and he looks back down to avoid the comparison in his mind of the way his father — so cold and distant to the world — can smile at his mother, using only the warmth in his eyes.

“I know,” he finally says, under his breath. Their gradual descent into friendship is in direct relation to the amount of times he’s tried to bring up Potter’s sleep habits, as it always turns into an outing or an argument about Quidditch, or an extra trip down to the kitchens for some buttered rum. He looks to Weasley, whose face eases. “He’s sleeping better. Doesn’t stay up as long, every night.”

“Good,” Weasley says, nodding. “No weird stuff?”

Coughing a laugh before he can help himself, Draco still manages to shake his head. “Depends on how you define that,” he says wryly, and Weasley’s lips give a rueful twitch of acknowledgement. 

“Fair enough. You know, Malfoy, you’re not…” Weasley trails off thoughtfully, and Draco braces himself, only to hear, “the worst, I guess.”

“I’d be relieved to know you don’t think me ‘the _worst_ ,’” Draco snaps, voice strangely hoarse, face turning hot, “if I cared at all what you thought.”

Weasley flicks him another glance, as if to evaluate him. Draco keeps his scowl firmly in place, and Weasley, damn him, smiles.

***

“Want to fuck you,” Potter pants, one hand fanned out over Draco’s hipbone as they lay side by side on Draco’s bed.

“No,” Draco manages with a low, soft whinge, his hand dragging his foreskin back. His cock is so thick in his palm, feels so heavy and swollen, he tries to keep his touch light so he won’t come before Potter does. He brushes his middle finger against the vein that pulses steadily underneath the shaft, his nerve endings going hot as he imagines doing that — letting Potter push into his arse with the cock he’s currently tugging in slow, clumsy strokes. Draco shifts, arsehole clenching at the image. He shoves the waistbands of his pyjama bottoms and boxers further down, tucking them under his balls and oh, _fuck,_ that feels better.

“Want to suck you,” Potter tries, and it’s as if Draco’s whinge was contagious, because Potter has the sharp edge of desperation in his tone now, too. Draco curls his toes into the mattress, jerking when Potter reaches out with his free hand to touch Draco’s nipple inquisitively, and Draco moans, trying to arch away but only managing to press closer to that fizzle of sensation streaking through him at the thoughtless tweak. Potter does it again, and Draco remembers the question.

“N-no,” he stammers. He moves his hand more swiftly, thumb swiping over the precome dribbling from the slit. Potter’s _mouth_ on him, dear holy fuck. How someone can want to cry from the thrill of something while mourning the lack of it, Draco doesn’t know, but finds that it’s true as he says, “We _can’t._ No.”

Potter makes a disgruntled sound; he suddenly shifts, rolling onto his side so he’s facing Draco. His cock brushes the outside of Draco’s hip and his hand slides down from Draco’s chest to his stomach, then lower, fingertips brushing the curls at Draco’s groin. Draco catches Potter’s wrist and holds it steady as he fucks his own fist with tight, fast strokes, feeling the tide rise inside him. 

“Want to come on you,” Potter says in that determined, vague voice of his. The words are almost too much to hear. Draco turns his head to the side to look at Potter, eyes glazed and narrow, lips parted slightly as he breathes, and he wants to say no to that too, knows he should, but he’s so goddamned close, and the idea of having Potter’s spunk _touch him_ is—

“Sure,” he says, head swimming. Potter grunts in reply and shifts his hips closer and _fuck_ touches the bare skin on Draco’s hip with his cock, streaking it with a gleaming trail of warm moisture as his fist moves over it faster. That wasn’t what Draco _meant_ but he’s too far gone to care. 

He’s almost there when Potter’s free hand tugs out of his lax grip and lowers to cover Draco’s, clenching over his wanking fist. Draco comes with a loud, plaintive moan, distantly thinking that he shouldn’t for some reason, but Potter’s hand feels good — _so fucking good_ — wrapped tight around Draco’s frantically moving grip, spunk spilling over both their knuckles. His hips twist and he feels warmth splash across his stomach, his _cock,_ as Potter grunts again and starts coming too. Draco looks down in time to see it, the pearlescent streaks hitting his skin and landing in messy stripes over his pubic hair and cock, already covered in his own release that doesn’t want to stop. He squeezes his hand tighter over the glans on the final downstroke, milking the last weak spurt of come from his erection.

Heart racing and muscles going noodle-y, Draco blinks over to see Potter twisting his wrist lazily, hand now loose on his spent cock. He’s just...looking at his hand on Draco’s, a dreamlike gleam in his eye. The smell of sweat and spunk hangs heavily in the air, layered with the woodsy notes of Potter’s cologne. That scent permeates the pillow Potter rests on now, and if Draco has taken to sleeping on it after Potter returns to his own bed, well, that’s his own business. 

The thought slides him out of his post-orgasmic haze. He shakes off Potter’s hand, now pliant and relaxed as he slips back into his sleepwalking daze, and gently puts it on the mattress between them. Even thinking about Potter touching him, touching Draco’s hand as he used it to get off, is such a turn on that his cock gives a feeble jerk, but the guilt licks at the edges of the memory like a flame. He waits, gazing at Potter’s distant face as Potter blinks a few times and waves a hand to clean them. The fairy lights flicker in the corner. 

“I like touching you,” Potter says in an eerily distant voice. “I used to think about it sometimes.”

This is not the way it’s supposed to go; Potter’s supposed to get up and wander back to his own bed now. 

Breath catching, Draco scoots away, creating more distance between them, and carefully pulls up his pants and bottoms to cover himself. But Potter’s face is still incredibly close, illuminated by the glow of Potter’s tree. His lips are bite-swollen and slick and open, his breath warm and sweet like sugar dust on Draco’s face. Draco could kiss him, if he had a mind to.

 _You always have a mind to,_ comes the insidious thought. 

“You should go to bed,” he says quietly, looking away.

“Did you ever think about touching me?” Potter wonders aloud, sounding entirely too young. 

The knot in Draco’s stomach tightens; he slips his feet under the covers and tugs them up, turning on his side to face Potter fully and running a hand through his hair. He can’t figure out why his throat aches when he admits, “For years, really.”

“When you wanked?”

“...Yeah.” He hesitates. “You know that, though.”

“Not that, exactly. I hated you then,” Potter says, which feels like a hex from a third year: something he can see coming, but that hurts all the same. But then he adds, “I don’t, anymore,” and sighs, a tiny smile on his face. He leans forward to bump Draco’s forehead with his forehead with an almost affectionate gesture — like a Thestral with her foal — then climbs out of Draco’s bed and walks back to his own. His flannels still hang down, baring his soft prick, and his gait is uncoordinated and loose; he looks completely ridiculous, and Draco wants him to come back.

He’s two steps from his bed; ten seconds from sleep. They’re sort-of friends, and they do… _this_ , and he still needs to hear it again. While he still has the chance, Draco blurts, “You don’t?”

“Nuh uh.” Potter falls over his mattress, stuffing one bare foot under his sheet. “Do you…”

“No,” Draco says, even though Potter’s breath has already turned into a soft snuffle. Merlin to Christ. “I don’t, either.”

He lays tensely, listening to the _tick, pause_ of his antique desk clock, reminding him that with every second, his fortune could be running out.

***

“You’re decorating it?”

Draco doesn’t turn around, but his hands still in the act of carefully fitting a golden candle deep inside the pines of his tree, hiding his surprise; Potter’d said he’d be studying after supper. When he doesn’t say anything else, Draco shrugs and whispers a gentle sticking charm at the candle. “It’s three weeks until Christmas.”

“That’s what you’ve been waiting for?” Potter asks, amused and incredulous. “You put them up over two months early!”

“I…” Draco reaches for another candle, looking for a good spot. He hears movement, and then Potter is beside him, inquisitive gaze set on Draco’s profile so that Draco can’t help but feel it like the drift of fingers. He fits the candle in with precise, economical movements, and doesn’t turn his head when he says, “I like Christmas trees, okay?”

“I got that,” Potter says. His eyes are soft as clover, warm, and Draco feels trapped by them. “Why?”

“I…” Draco inhales slowly; he can smell Potter’s aftershave. “My mother and— and father,” he says hesitantly, pausing to give Potter time to interrupt if he wants, “love Christmas. We have an enormous, formally decorated tree in our foyer; smaller ones in the dining room and parlour. I liked them so much when I was young that my parents gave me two for my room. They used to help me decorate — it’s how I got the magical creatures collection of ornaments,” he says, waving a hand when Potter tilts his head quizzically. “They... spoiled me,” he admits, the words that once felt so sweet, now like tar on his tongue. But Potter simply nods patiently. “And they would come to my room and read to me in bed, one on each side, and…”

“And?”

“And they would hold hands behind me. Or dance with each other when I asked. Father would wear house slippers and mother would leave her hair down, and though holidays became more formal as I grew, it never… It was always the time when we… When everything was…good,” Draco fumbles out, colouring. He firms his voice, taking on a defensive tone. “So I like Christmas, and I like trees, and, and that’s why.”

Potter looks at him a moment more, then skates his fingers over the line of Draco’s cheekbone before letting his hand fall back to his side. This time, Draco doesn’t turn because he _can’t_ , his whole body seizing up with lust and longing and confusion as he wonders if Potter _knows_ what they’ve been doing at night, if it’s possible he always has. 

“I like Christmas trees too,” Potter says wistfully. “But I never got to help decorate at the Dursleys’. I’d just watch them do it through the slots in the cupboard door. It was never how I wanted it to look, but I liked having the extra light from the fairy lights a night.” He casts a fond glance at his own tree, the branches heavy with their bright baubles. It’s the first time he’s brought up his Muggle family, and Draco takes a second to think up a good response.

“I don’t suppose it matters much how it looks as long as you’ve got a gift you like underneath,” Draco says hoarsely, too aware of their positioning, like the previous few nights: Potter close to his side, his breath on Draco’s jaw. 

“My Christmas mornings were never very good, but at least they usually left more on their plates for supper — I’d help Petunia make enough to feed Hogwarts — so I almost always got a decent enough amount to eat. More, if I could smuggle some food into my pockets,” Potter says. Draco has a sudden vision of the skinny waif he’d first met in Madam Malkin’s, clothing overlarge and smudged with dirt, green eyes huge in his face. 

“They starved you,” he breathes, as Potter’s occasional reference to being hungry clicks in his head.

“Well, sometimes,” Potter says blithely, like it doesn’t really matter anymore. His hand is warm when it touches Draco’s wrist. “Can I help?”

“Yeah, of course,” Draco says, before he can think better of it. He gives a short, jerky nod. “I’m just doing the candles tonight. Ribbons tomorrow.”

“Why?” Potter asks, picking up a candle. “These are pretty. Do they light up?”

“Yeah. Yes.” Draco licks his lips, tension leaking from his muscles when Potter takes a step back and easily finds a good spot to set his candle, near the top. He copies the sticking charm Draco used, and Draco doesn’t know what to think, that he was paying such close attention. “There’s a charm for the flame to protect the tree.” He pauses, knuckles brushing Potter’s as they both reach for a new candle at the same time. “And it’s tradition.”

“Like a pureblood thing?”

Draco shrugs. “I suppose. It’s the way my family has always done it, at least.” When Potter makes another interested sound — a little _hmm?_ noise in the back of his throat — Draco explains, “Candles first, then ribbons, then ornaments, a few more every night in ascending order of how special or rare they are. Christmas Eve, you put up the last, and then your parents pretend it’s Father Christmas fitting the tiny presents onto the branches while you’re asleep.”

Potter chuckles, low and warm, and his chest presses against Draco’s shoulder as he reaches up and in to set another candle. His words feel hot and damp against the shell of Draco’s ear when he pulls away. “There’s good?” Draco nods stiffly, eyes on the lopsided candle. He reaches up woodenly to fix it, and Potter says, “It’s funny, Ron hadn’t heard of Santa at _all_.”

“Who’s Santa?” Draco asks, taking a step back to survey the tree. 

“Father Christmas.”

“Muggles call him Santa?” Draco ticks a look at him; Potter’s eyes are overbright behind his stupid round lenses — one of which has a fingerprint smudge near the bottom — and his smile is crooked. He finds another empty spot near the top to put another candle. “Maybe they’re not the same person, because Father Christmas isn’t a myth.”

“No, same, but there’s no way he could be real,” Potter says. “Basically, Santa visits all the houses of good children in the world and brings toys and candy.” Draco snorts, eyebrows raised, and Potter’s amused expression quickly turns bewildered. “Lives in the North Pole with his wife and has flying reindeer? Has loads of elves who help him make his… oh.”

Laughing aloud at Potter’s slackened jaw as he processes it, Draco gives him a teasing poke in the shoulder; his face heats, though he’s not sure why — Potter seems excessively fond of tactile interactions with his friends, Draco’s learned — and he pulls away quickly. “Yes, _oh_. You should stop questioning what could be real or not. Bad Muggle habit, that.”

“But—”

“And they’re not reindeer; they’re Thestrals. Obviously,” Draco informs him smugly, rather enjoying the bloom of excitement on Potter’s face.

“How does he get to all the kids to celebrate Christmas in one night, then?” Potter asks, a little _ah ha!_ in his tone.

“Time Turner.” Draco smirks. “And Apparition. And a few other charms, I’d expect, though the Ministry doesn’t reveal what. You really _haven’t_ ever paid attention in History of Magic, have you? The Orphan Wishes in the middle ages, when witches and wizards — along with Muggles, being mistaken for them — were being hunted for their magic? He would bring smoked cod and roasted venison or pork to the children left behind, veritable banquets with stew and mead even for the commoners. And he would include swatches of fabric for the children, too — mainly bolts of wool, though the rumour is that he Transfigured them on occasion to cloth of gold or silver, so the family could sell it later on.” 

“Is he a thousand years old?” Potter asks blankly.

Smiling, Draco shakes his head. “Of course not; the title is passed down from parent to son or daughter. There’ve been several Mother Christmases too; they just don’t generally seek as much fame for their generosity.” He jerks his head in the direction of the door. “Ask your Weasel about Father Christmas, then, and see what he says. He probably didn’t make the connection because you were eleven when you met; Father Christmas has to cease visiting children around the age of five, or he’d never get any sleep. That’s when the parents take over.”

Draco half-expects Potter to bolt from the room to go find Weasley to confirm, but after a moment’s silence, Potter returns to task and plies Draco with questions about Father Christmas and wizarding hols — apparently, the Weasley family is so informal, they don’t even bother with _ribbons_ on their tree — and they spend the next three quarters of the hour joking and talking as they position and reposition the candles until Draco’s satisfied that their placement won’t get in the way of the rest of the decorations to come. 

“Can I help again?” Potter asks, when they’re nearly done. “Tomorrow night?”

“Pureblood tradition dictates that decorating formal trees are a way for families to bond,” Draco says slowly. Potter’s face doesn’t exactly fall, but the muscles of it seem to go flat, as does his chest, and it takes a moment for Draco to realise that Potter’s holding his breath. “Or friends,” he allows. His throat tightens around the _actual_ words that want to spring free from his lips like a promise: _those loved; those Bonded; mates_. “Friends can help, too.”

For some reason, though he starts breathing again, Potter’s expression doesn’t change. He looks at Draco intently, as though trying to figure something out. “Is that what we are?” he murmurs.

“We’re probably a lot of things,” Draco says after a short pause, chills skittering up his arms. His Mark aches, inexplicably, the way it does sometimes when his heart beats too fast — as if reminding him that it’s easier not to feel anything at all. “But, yes. I suppose friends is one of them.” Unsteadily, when Potter doesn’t respond, Draco says, “...Right?”

“Right,” he says, so emphatically, Draco has the absurd urge to laugh. He hides it, though he knows he has no hope of hiding the accompanying warmth in his cheeks. As though practicing Legilimency, Potter touches his cheek again, drifting closer; his pupils are blown wide, ringed with the barest threading of vibrant green, and for a second they shift from Draco’s gaze to drop to his mouth.

Breath catching, Draco watches them come back up, heavy lidded now, and this can’t be _possible_ , really; Potter’s _awake,_ and leaning _closer_ , and looking at him like—

Three loud, businesslike raps on the door cause the spell between them to shimmer, but not quite to break. They stand looking at each other, and fuck if Potter seems to know what to do anymore than Draco does; he seems conflicted as to whether he should answer the door or do… Whatever he was about to, not that Draco is stupid enough to get his hopes entirely up before it happens. Then Granger’s voice, impatient and muffled, says, “Harry? Are you in there?”

“Shit.”

“Potter,” Draco says, voice gone low and quiet in a way it never has before.

Potter hesitates; his thumb is still warm on Draco’s jaw, fingers fanning out over the side of Draco’s neck. He glances at the door; shakes his head. Draco can’t contain the smile that breaks free when Potter starts to pull him closer; it’s mirrored on Potter’s face — as bright and happy as the tree on Potter’s side of the room — as he tilts his chin up to Draco’s. 

“Harry! It’s important!” The knock comes again, harder; more like the slap of a palm against the heavy wood. 

Draco wobbles shakily as Potter releases him to stalk over to the door; he yanks it open with a soft snarl. “ _What,_ Hermione? We’re _busy!_ ”

“You’re—” Granger’s lashes flutter rapidly, the round apples of her cheeks turning pink as she spots Draco and seems to realise she’d interrupted— Well, whatever was about to happen. Draco can’t be _sure_ now, goddamnit. He glares at her impotently and she looks back to Potter, eyes round with apology. “I’m _so sorry_ , Harry.” She drops her voice a touch, glancing behind her. “I know you’ve been—”

“Hermione!” Potter snaps; he shoots Draco a strange look, then turns back to Granger. His voice softens. “Sorry, but— D’you mind? Can you come back… Later?”

The patch of pink on her cheeks spreads and she shakes her head. “Sorry, I can’t. Pomfrey and Wilkins need to see you straightaway.”

Caught by the name, Draco’s mind snaps from wondering what he and Potter can get up to between Now and Later. “The Mind Healer on staff?”

Potter looks at him again, brow furrowed; he nods. “I’ve been seeing her off and on. For—” He waves a hand, a pretty fucking generalised way of saying, _dying during the war and becoming a living icon_ , Draco thinks. He snorts a little, hitching up a shoulder to show he understands. Regretfully, Potter stares at him, then says, “I should go.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be back.”

Draco swallows. “I’ll be… here,” he says lamely.

Potter’s mouth tightens; he seems to be caught between going in one direction or the other. Finally, Granger’s fingers on his wrist compel him out the door, with one last look over his shoulder.

As soon as the door bangs shut behind them, Draco stumbles over to his bed and sits down on it heavily. When that doesn’t seem to do much for the way the room is spinning around him, he folds in half and sticks his head between his knees, trying to slow his galloping heart, trying to level out the unhealthy amounts of oxygen he’s sucking in.

He thinks — is fairly certain, at least; fucking _Granger_ — that Potter had been about to kiss him. Which means… Draco doesn’t know what. It means he needs answers. But the primary source of information he wants them from has just fucked off with all of them, and Draco stares at his tree for several minutes, unsure what to do. He can’t — _shouldn’t_ — get involved with Potter… _that_ way, until at least _explaining_ that he’s been…

Draco raises his head, breath slowing; he grabs his wand and spells the candles to light, their little bubble of protective fireproof enchantments popping into place around the wicks as the flames begin flickering and dancing. He lets out a breath, toeing off his shoes and then laying down, fully-clothed, atop his duvet as he watches the glimmer of the trees, his eyes moving from his to Potter’s, and back. The muscles in his shoulders loosen. 

With the exception of the previous year, Christmas has always been — for him — a time of uncomplicated happiness: having a sip of his father’s Port while they talked in the study late; his mother curled up in their parlour, outfitted informally in her silk dressing gown as her quiet voice relayed the comforting story of Father Christmas, determined to bring joy to the orphans whose parents flesh had been burnt at the stake. Candles and holly berries and silver stars and _home_... He’d rather hoped to recreate at least a little of that, here.

But if he tells Potter… _When_ he tells Potter…

He sighs, blinking heavily as the flames of the candles on his tree begins to blur. That, at least, feels like something he knows.

***

“You always wake me up from the best dreams,” Draco mumbles resentfully, hips undulating into Potter’s enterprising hand. He’s gotten Draco’s trousers open, pulled his prick out, and Draco exhales softly, the spider-silk fine strands of his dream clearing as he opens his eyes. He realises with a jolt that Potter’s hand is _actually_ moving over his cock, thumb pressing against the underside of the head when he pulls on it, and a low moan — whinge; whatever — slips out of his throat. “Potter… We have to talk.”

“You didn’t want to play chess,” Potter says. Draco’s vision snaps into focus at the indistinct tone in his voice; he sees Potter standing at his bedside, pyjama bottoms down around his thighs, his cock a thick and fierce red, angled out from his groin. He grunts quietly as he jerks his other fist over it, glazed eyes on Draco’s face.

 _Fuck_. Draco shifts, trying not to buck into the warmth of Potter’s hand; with every shred of composure he still has -- well, with the one -- he puts his hand on Potter’s wrist and forces it away, his cock rising for a moment as if begging to be touched again before thumping heavily against the fastened waistband of Draco’s trousers. “No,” he says firmly. “Go back to bed.”

“Okay,” Potter says, smiling a little, and fucking hell, Draco’s sick of that word. He scowls, fully intending to roll over and not watch this time, to not justify this mess by wanking again, too, but then Potter releases his own prick, shimmying just enough so that his pyjamas fall off completely and gets up onto Draco’s bed, climbing over him and— and _stopping_ there. 

Draco gawks, frozen; Potter straddles his chest, one knee pinning Draco’s left arm to his side, the other wedged into Draco’s right armpit. His jutting cock bobs inches from Draco’s chin; it looks purplish at the swollen tip, the foreskin stretched tight around it to reveal almost nothing but the slit, which shines dully in the light of the candles and Potter’s fairy lights.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Draco asks, voice thready. He licks his lips to wet them; his whole body suddenly feels dry and hollow — with the exception of his prick, which spurts a small dribble of precome just as Draco peruses the length of Potter’s erection in his face, eyes catching every shade of red. Potter’s balls are warm and oddly soft, resting on the top of Draco’s sternum.

“Wanking,” Potter says simply. “I want to come on your face. I think you’d look nice like that.”

“I see,” Draco says faintly. He wiggles a bit, desperately looking for a way out from under Potter, but all he manages to find is his own cock in his hand, with the arm trapped against his ribcage. Really, Potter shouldn’t have left his lower arm free like that, if Draco was meant to show any moral resistance to it. “I look nice in everything.”

Since his hand is already _there_ , Draco grips his cock tight, just as Potter reaches down to begin stroking himself again. Draco’s eyes fasten to the top of Potter’s prick; he’s pretty sure that if he lifted his head, he could catch the tip of of it in his mouth. He presses his head deeper into his pillow, breath hard-won over the weight of Potter’s bare arse on his chest.

Potter smiles again; he nods. “You’re good-looking. I like to look at you when I wank.”

“I know,” Draco says, working his hand more swiftly. Potter’s hips bounce lightly, his buttocks tensing as he fucks into his fist. 

“I was worried about it at first,” Potter offers between tiny, happy groans. 

“About what?” Draco asks breathlessly. His balls tingle achingly and his cock is so hard in his hand, shooting little shocks of pleasure up the shaft that he can feel all the way to his spine. His heels dig into the sheets as he pumps into his own rapidly moving grip, neglecting every bit of the self-teasing he usually engages in for sheer speed as he hurtles toward the edge. He wants to touch the cock in his face, wants to lick it, wants to—

“How good you looked this year,” Potter says. “When you wouldn’t even look at me.”

“I always look at you,” Draco chokes out. He comes, eyes flicking up to Potter’s unsteady green gaze, to the tongue poking out of the side of his mouth. He trembles, thighs going tight as he splatters spunk all over his hand, a soft groan tearing from his mouth, sensation zinging through him in sharp, cresting waves.

“ _Oh_ ,” Potter says softly. Draco brings up his free hand unthinkingly; he cups Potter’s arse, fingers massaging the muscle covered in soft skin and a light dusting of hair. He feels wrung out and dazed but pleased, even though he shouldn’t. Potter’s cock is very dark in is face, long and thick; he’s pulled the foreskin back again and _fuck_ , if Potter were awake, Draco would—

“I’m coming,” Potter whispers, the moment before he does. The first warm stripe hits Draco’s chin and drips down his throat; the second streaks over his mouth. And then it’s _everywhere_ , it seems: on his cheeks, his lips, even a bit on his nose. Potter’s eyes are wide and faraway, the bridge of his nose crinkled into an almost-grimace. Draco exhales shakily, darting his tongue out tentatively to taste the fluid on his lips; it’s blandly bitter, but mostly alright. He sweeps his tongue around to catch the rest of it as Potter sinks back down onto his chest heavily.

“I need to breathe,” Draco says after a moment, bringing up his free arm to catch away a sticky streak over his cheekbone. He thinks to wipe it on his covers, but that’s disgusting; he sucks it off his fingers, instead.

“Okay,” Potter says, levering easily off him, to the side. He curls up there, resting his head on Draco’s pillow and blinking at him. “That was good. I think about things.”

Draco rolls his eyes, yawning, suddenly aware that he’s still in his shirt and trousers and socks. He starts to reach for his wand — none of his limbs seem to be cooperating — then feels the cool wisp of Potter’s magic over his skin, clearing away the mess. He nods in thanks, tucking his cock away, and turns to face Potter. 

“What things?” he ventures, when Potter doesn’t immediately wander off to his own bed.

“You,” Potter says, unaware of how Draco’s insides are split open by the simple sentiment. 

“Okay,” he says finally — that stupid word really _is_ useful for a lot of things. His eyes droop, his orgasm and weeks of not sleeping through the night pressing heavy on him. “You need to go to bed.”

“This _is_ my…” Draco thinks he hears, just before his eyes slip shut.


	2. Chapter 2

The pillows his mother used to warm for him to curl around as a child were never so soothing as the one in Draco’s arms.

Nor did they move as much.

Draco orders the pillow to stop it in a slurred mumble, peeking one eye open to check the light; it’s early, the faded blue of the morning barely drifting into the amber of sunrise. He closes his eyes again and twitches his face to the side; the hair in his face tickles.

“Malfoy,” Potter says.

“I’m _tired_ ,” Draco moans, snuggling him closer. His body is like a furnace.

“I’m _naked_ ,” Potter counters drily. Draco’s eyes shoot open; he releases Potter and scrambles away while Potter grabs for the chenille throw resting in a mussed drape at the foot of Draco’s bed. He scoots into a sitting position, side-eyeing Draco. “Why am I naked?”

“How would _I_ know?” Draco huffs, cringing. “This is _my bed_.”

“I guess it is.” He falls silent, and when Draco ventures another peek at him, his face is phoenix red. “Do I do this a lot?”

“Sleep naked into my bed?” Draco clarifies hopefully, searching for a way to lie; now that the moment’s unavoidable, he might not feel horrible… avoiding it, a little longer. Potter purses his lips, swiveling his head but not quite facing Draco, whose breath stutters. His shoulders sag. “Weasley told me to let you.”

“Let me what?” Potter asks incredulously, eyes darting up to finally look at him directly. 

Feeling at a distinct disadvantage, Draco sits as well, pulling his knees up and his feet close to his body. “Just… not to wake you,” he admits miserably, talking to his knees. “I’m sorry.”

“For…?”

The question hangs in the room troublingly.

“Everything?” Draco tries. He attempts a smile that feels too much like a grimace to be as winsome as he hopes.

“You think this is… is _your_ fault?” Potter asks, gesturing between them. If Draco knew anything about diagnostic magic, he’d check for symptoms of a stroke, just based on the colour of Potter’s face. It’s gone eggplant. “What do I do?”

“Talk, mostly,” Draco says.

“So then, like the other nights?” Potter hesitates; frowns. “But if you don’t want to go further, why—”

“Not...exactly,” Draco hedges. He blinks. “Wait, what?

“Why am I naked?” Potter asks again, as though the world isn’t tilting on its axis. Draco casts a suspicious look around to see if Father Christmas himself might be hiding near one of the trees. 

“You like to wank,” Draco says flatly, “but what did you mean I ‘don’t want to go further’?”

“I— What the fuck, I thought those were _dreams!_ ” Potter scrambles out of the bed, dropping the throw blanket twice in his haste. Draco stares at him, unmoved by the sight of Potter’s nudity for once. He opens his mouth to ask about the other thing again, but Potter — swiftly tying the corners of the blanket around his waist — interrupts him before he has the chance. “I’ve wanked in front of you?”

“On occasion,” Draco says drily, the words coming easier than he thought they would now that… Well, _something_. “You really did dream of wanking in front of me, then?”

Potter looks at him, eyes huge, then suddenly darts to his own side of the room to grab his glasses and a discarded pair of jeans.

“I’ll see you later!” he yelps, mid-flight, as the door slams shut behind him. The edge of the blanket catches in it, and he hears Potter bellow, “Fuck!” before a frantic tugging releases the fine material from the grip of the door. 

Draco sits in his rumpled uniform, piecing together several tidbits of information from his flabbergasted state of mind: one, Potter’s near-kiss from yesterday; two, their frequent outings. Five or six — Draco’s not sure which — Potter has some insipid idea that sleeping naked in his bed is alright but nothing...further… Ten or eleven, he often spends his time talking to Draco while _awake_ , telling him things on those nights, about growing up Muggle or the last Battle, or his favorite thing about Defence spellwork. 

Fifty or sixty, the way Potter always seems to _touch_ him: a hand brushing Draco’s hip as they walk, the way he’d rubbed brisk palms over Draco’s biceps instead of casting a simple warming charm immediately when Draco complained of the cold after flying. A thousand: Potter’s infuriating friends seem to have adopted him.

Which makes them _his_ friends too, Draco thinks, grimacing even as it occurs to him what he has to do.

And he’d thought it couldn’t get any more uncomfortable.

***

“Ron. Hermione.”

The two look at him from where their heads are bent close together over an open book, as though it’s not obvious that Granger’s — Hermione’s — hand is moving beneath the desk. She looks flustered; her shoulder stills. Ron bites his lip, then stares at him unwelcomingly.

“Ferret. We’re studying; go away.”

“I just hope you never slap me again,” Draco says smoothly to Hermione, taking a seat instead. “Not with the workout you’re giving the muscles in that hand. Or where it’s been, for that matter.”

“I— We—!” Her hand comes up from below the edge of the table to brush back the bushel of hair that’s fallen in her face. 

_”Go away, Malfoy,”_ Ron says again, scowling. He shifts in his seat, giving a sad blink to Hermione, who rolls her eyes and sits back in her chair, crossing her arms even though her dusky complexion has darkened quite a bit. 

Draco waves a hand. “I’ll let you get back to it in a minute,” he says, although Hermione’s face doesn’t bode well for that. Well, good. She interrupted him and Potter last night. “I need to ask you something about… About Harry,” he forces out.

Though he’s been using their first names, _Potter’s_ tripping off his tongue seems to surprise them both; they exchange a glance. “Is he okay?” Hermione asks.

“Fine.”

“So he’s finally done it, then,” Ron muses, sounding appalled and oddly gleeful.

“Done _what_?” Draco demands, frustrated. 

“You’re calling him Harry,” Ron says, screwing up his face in confusion.

“Merlin’s sake, how the three of you won the bloody war, I’ll never know,” Draco says. “Not if you insisted on talking in riddles then, too.”

Hermione sighs. “What is it, Malfoy?”

“Harry and I…” Confidence floundering — really, he should never follow through on a plan of action before parsing down a thousand pieces of information into the two or three most relevant — Draco watches his fingers drumming against the scarred desktop for a moment before sucking in a breath and addressing Ron. “You said Harry’s my…”

“Roommate, I know,” Ron says, smirking. “If that’s what you’re calling it.”

“What were _you_ calling it?”

“Well, I dunno,” Ron says, perplexed. He turns to Hermione. “When it’s two blokes, it’s still boyfriends, right? Bill just used to call them ‘dates,’ but I don’t think he really got serious about anyone before Fleur.” She nods, and Ron looks back at him. “Boyfriends, then, I guess. Right? Even if you’ve got all these weird—”

“Ron,” Hermione says quietly, tone gently censorious. “Don’t make fun of someone’s family practices, if they’re not hurting anyone.”

Ron snickers. “Oh, I bet a part of Harry is _aching_ , actually,” he says, and she smacks his forearm, but bites her lip in an attempt to hide her smile. 

“ _What_ are you two going on about?” Draco asks when their absurd little exchange is done. “Boyfriends? Family practices?”

“Is there a traditional way of saying it?” Hermione asks seriously. “Paramours? Or is that only if you’ve reached a level of…”

“We’re not boyfriends,” Draco snaps, shivering lightly. “I— I just wanted to know if you thought we were… If Harry and I were… If those times we’d gone out had been…”

“Dates?” Ron supplies disbelievingly. “You honestly didn’t know?”

“I. Well. I.” For some reason he can’t divine, his hands are shaking. He knots them into fists, pressing the knuckles into his thighs to steady himself. “I thought. Uh.” 

He has literally no way of finishing that sentence, he realises with a numb sort of panic.

Ron and Hermione stare at him and then, in unison, start laughing with such delight that Draco automatically slips his wand from the sleeve of his robes, glaring.

“Then wh-why did you tell h-him you want t-to take things slowly?” Hermione gets out through giggles, sobering only a little when Madam Pince sends an unamused Patronus to inform them that they can be heard in the front of the library.

“I didn’t!” Draco objects after Pince’s glowing, hissing badger dissipates. 

“Well, Harry thinks you did, so if you’re not snogging yet, it’s your own damned fault,” Ron snorts, and Draco sneers at him, deciding to call him Weasley again. Twat. Weasley twat.

“So then he— we—” Again, Draco searches for a way to phrase his question, but ends up simply staring at them in consternation for a long minute, weighing his options, before abruptly standing. “Okay, thank you.”

“For what?” Weasley snorts. Hermione rolls her eyes at him and nods to Draco, her face soft and understanding. 

“You should talk to Harry.”

“He had to run out this morning,” he says coolly. “I’ll speak to him later.”

He hopes, at least.

***

“You, ah, got started without me.”

Draco doesn’t turn, mostly because the arsehole has been gone all bloody day and doesn’t deserve it. “Are we _dating_ , Potter?” he sneers at the tree, winding a frosted red ribbon around the end of a branch and deftly tying it into a bow.

Heavy silence greets his question, then Draco hears the rustle of shoes being kicked off and the creak of Harry’s mattress as he sits. Draco gestures to his antique Pensieve, set up unobtrusively next to his bed. He’s never had an occasion to use it before and has long resented his mother’s insistence that he bring it to school every term — it weighs down his trunk, and takes up an appalling amount of space, even with extension charms — but hopes he can finally get some use out of the damned thing. 

“They’re in order, oldest on the inside of the row,” Draco says flatly. “I left some out, for time constraints.” The most recent, for instance; he wants to keep that one to himself for a little while longer.

Harry sucks in a deep breath. “We could just talk. You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Draco says, voice brisk. He chooses a long, shimmering blue ribbon with floating stars over the material and casts his wand at it so it loops attractively around the branches. “Go ahead.”

Another beat passes; Harry sighs, then heads over to the Pensieve, carelessly dumping the first memories — Weasley talking to Draco in the library, and the first few nights — into the stone bowl. Draco cranes his head to look, only to find Harry looking back at him sort of unhappily before turning back and bending to dip his face into the bowl. There’s silence for a time, but he knows when Harry gets to the moment Draco began to contribute — Harry’s hand tight on his wrist as he’d pulled Draco closer to cup his cock; the way Draco had come untouched, from bare friction and sheer want — because he starts to shift uneasily; his back starts to heave, shallow and light. 

He lifts his head and gives Draco an inscrutable look while he gathers and stoppers the memories back into their vials before tipping in several more in order: Harry’s invitations out, the first time Harry’d touched his cock, their long walks together down to Hogsmeade, the frozen earth crunching beneath their feet. Draco continues fastening ribbons with careful deliberation, even though he knows that Harry can not only see what happened but — because of the nature of the charms on his family Pensieve — can also get a sense of how Draco _felt_ about those interactions, which is… horrifying, but strangely exhilarating, too. 

At least he doesn’t have to keep secrets, anymore. Blowing up the castle, be damned.

He’s finished before Harry is, and he settles uneasily on the edge of his bed, waiting for Harry’s head to come up. When it does, his face his flushed and his eyes are bright.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says and, bewildered, Draco tries to remember if he’d asked a question in his last memory — decorating the tree together, the previous night — but it’s a little fuzzy, his clearest memory being inside the Pensieve and all. 

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, we’re dating,” Harry says simply. He licks his lips, then comes forward, nudging Draco’s knees apart to stand between them. Draco’s hands find themselves on Harry’s hips as he stares up at him, incredulous. He wants to ask _how_ , or -- maybe more importantly -- _why me?_ , but the questions die in his throat, fear rising in him at the possible answers.

“ _That’s_ what you got from that?” he sputters instead, accessing outrage. “I… took advantage!”

“I _told_ you not to tell me,” Harry says heatedly. “I avoided it every time you tried. If anyone took advantage, it's me.”

“But I wanked!” Draco says, outraged at the slow grin that spreads over Harry’s face, at the impish twinkle that appears in his eyes. “With you! While you were asleep!”

“Oh, I know,” Harry says, raising one eyebrow, voice going low. He smooths a hand up Draco’s suddenly shallowly-heaving chest and rests his hands on his shoulders; his thumbs stroke the outside of Draco’s neck. “I mean, I wish I hadn’t got it in my head that you’d wanted to take things slow, or I’d’ve been doing that with you while we were awake, too, but…”

“Take things slow,” Draco echoes, voice husky. “Why _did_ you think that?”

“That memory of yours; the first night. You tried to kick me out of your bed by telling me that,” Harry snorts. He bends suddenly, tilting Draco’s chin up to catch his mouth in a light kiss that Draco feels all the way down to his toes, before cruelly straightening again. “I guess it stuck with me.”

“How stupid of sleeping-you,” Draco breathes, massively sceptical of his own luck. But not enough to not slide one hand up from Harry’s hip to twist in the cotton of his t-shirt over his stomach. “Which is not much of a surprise. But awake-me should have known better.”

“Draco,” Harry says, fingers light on his jaw as they look at each other. 

“Harry,” Draco counters, and pulls him down.

Harry groans as he covers Draco, their mouths meeting clumsily and then with more calculation. Draco rolls them so he’s on top, Harry slotted between his straddling thighs, their kisses greedy and slick. He grips Draco, hands roving searchingly over his body, enthusiastic and _aware_ of what he’s doing as he tugs out Draco’s shirttails from his trousers and slides a hot palm up over his back. Draco presses into it, then back into Harry, somehow managing to twist his spine in two ways until Harry’s palm flattens them against each other and he doesn’t have to choose between sensations. His eyes remain partially open, like Draco’s, a soft slip of green peeking through thick dark lashes as they risk glances at each other in the middle of their snogging, leaving Draco breathless and more than a little giddy. He pulls away, gasping, when he feels the swell of Harry’s prick against his arse.

“Wait, no—” Harry reaches for him again and though Draco means to ask him more about the dating thing, he goes unsteadily back into Harry’s arms; lets Harry roll him again so he’s on top. Draco’s knees come up, ankles hooking high behind Harry’s back; he shudders as Harry rocks into him, pressing biting little kisses over his mouth and jaw and throat. He licks each spot he’s bitten, and Draco tilts his head to bare his throat further whilst simultaneously catching Harry’s earlobe in his mouth and grazing his teeth over it hard. Harry moans — a soft, almost sweet sound — and thrusts against him, scooting higher on his knees until Draco can feel the hard shapes of their cocks press each other, and the lack of this — _this!_ , Draco thinks with a blurry sort of thrill, understanding falling into place like pieces of a puzzle — is what accounted for the emptiness he felt, the uncertainty. All of those nights of wanting Harry, of being _wanted_ by him but not knowing if it was real, all of those nights of talking, being seen but not touched, boxed by the nights when he’d been touched and not seen, Harry’s hands detached from the deep, fervent enthusiasm he’s always shown doing _anything_ that means something real to him—

He moans Draco’s name and Draco wriggles, using his ankles around Harry’s back as leverage to roll his hips up and continue the delightful friction; he thinks about prying his arms from around Harry’s shoulders but then doesn’t have to because Harry’s hands shove between them, working over Draco’s flies quickly and then his own. “Merlin,” Draco mutters, gulping in short breaths, “Merlin.”

“Yeah,” Harry says distractedly, pressing another open-mouthed kiss to Draco’s lips. “I want to— awake.” He slides his hand into Draco’s gaping trousers, fingertips brushing the head of Draco’s prick. “Okay?”

That’s such a bloody brilliant word that Draco repeats it on another groan, nodding as Harry tugs his boxers down to hook them beneath Draco’s balls. There’s a pause where Draco tries not to whimper as Harry’s hand leaves him, and then Harry’s cock is touching his, Harry’s hand wrapping as tight as it can around the two of them together. It’s strange and fucking _amazing_ — the swollen, hot touch of Harry’s erection against his own as Harry starts to stroke them together with awkwardly positioned pulls. 

“Wait, _nnngghh_ , Harry,” Draco mumbles out against Harry’s neck, for some reason unable to stop sucking at it. “Lift up, I want to—”

Without pulling his neck away, Harry’s chest and belly arch away from his; immediately the stroking of his hand over their cocks becomes smoother, Draco’s foreskin dragging against Harry’s as he pulls them back in tandem, then down to cover the leaking heads. The space also allows Draco to fit his hand between them and he shivers into Harry’s fist but finally does what he’s been wanting to for weeks — months; _years_ — and slips his hand over the head of Harry’s prick, index finger and thumb twisting over it. Harry bucks involuntarily, his hand faltering over their shafts before resuming its pulls, faster and more frantic, his breath hot and damp against Draco’s jaw and then mouth.

“I like you,” Harry whispers.

“Should have told you,” Draco breathes back against the flood of dangerous happiness threatening to overwhelm. “I should have said—”

“I, yeah, but, no, I—” Harry loses track of his words, eyes finally closing tight as he grips their cocks and pulls over them swiftly, his thumb pressing them firm together, shocks of pleasure from it snaking from Draco’s prick to shiver throughout his body. Draco moves his hand lower to cup Harry’s balls, drawn up snug between his thighs, just as Harry flicks his wrist fast over them both. His hand clamps over Harry’s balls as he comes, intense and surprising, cock pulsing messily over Harry’s hand and between them. Harry gasps, lips pursed and swollen, eyes pinched shut while Draco loosens his hold and manages to keep his mind enough to roll Harry’s balls in his palm, still groaning out his release, head tossed to the side. He feels Harry’s mouth against his neck once more, Harry’s hair tickling his ear, and then feels Harry’s cock twitching rhythmically against his, feels the spread of wet mingling with his own release, smearing between them onto his belly and groin.

“So when,” Draco finally gets out, chest still heaving after several months of Harry lying limply on top of him, “did we begin dating? Exactly? Were we dating when you started wanking? Because if so, I’ll feel a lot less guilty about getting off on that.”

“No.” Harry mumbles it into his neck, a smile in his voice. He’s starting to get heavy and Draco nudges him but he doesn’t take the hint, choosing instead to burrow even closer, suffocating Draco with his weight, but Draco knows for a fact there are scarier ways one could die so he decides he’s alright with this one. “Not then. Feel very guilty; you took advantage.”

Draco scowls as though Harry can see it, but his hands caress Harry’s surprisingly silky hair, that tumble of improbably combined waves and curls and cowlicks that would look ridiculous on anyone else. He wonders idly what it would look like if it were long enough for him to brush long strokes through, to braid or scrape into a bun, and if Harry would let him; his scowl at Harry’s teasing fades, of its own accord, and turns into a smirk. “When, then? When you watched me get undressed?”

Their Hogsmeade trip that day — after Harry returned, blushing, from the showers — had been wary and somewhat wooden, but Harry had not only paid for the food and drinks, but another hitwizard thriller he insisted Draco might like for when he was done with his own, and a box of crackling toffee. When they walked back to the castle, their shoulders kept brushing through thick layers of wool, and Draco had watched the way the crystalline puffs of their breaths had mingled in the cold.

“Really,” he insists, falling back into his rigid structure of propriety when Harry remains silent. “I’ll need to know, anyway, for getting you a gift next—”

Harry’s head comes up just as Draco breaks off, wishing for one of those rare seconds-resetting Time Turners. But then Harry brushes a kiss over his mouth, more soft and lovely than someone known for his power and brawn should be able to give, and sighs. His smile is small, but somehow… _everything_. 

It’s so much, that Draco wants to withdraw, wants to look away for fear that Harry will see too much in his eyes; he’s already revealed the ridiculous idea that keeps circulating in his mind that this will last. As if he can sense what Draco is thinking, Harry’s hands tighten on him.

“November 14th,” he says simply. “That was our first date.”

Draco tugs his head down and Harry comes, pressing him into a fierce kiss that lasts and lasts until Draco’s cock starts to fill out again, between their tacky-wet stomachs. With no little effort — Harry seems to like being atop him — Draco rolls them over until he’s spread out over Harry in a tightly gripping straddle. Apparently, snogging Harry has the same element of wrestling that doing _anything_ with him does, but that’s good too; it makes the whole thing feel like _them_ , rather than one of those implausibly sentimental dreams he’ll never admit to having had in fifth year, that were all rose petal-covered beds and elf-wine, Harry in a silk Slytherin dressing robe and matching ascot. He pins Harry’s wrists to the mattress and though Harry could surely get out of it, he just smiles slyly and waggles his eyebrows. 

“That,” Draco points out, “was the day you watched me get undressed.”

It’s not like he _needs_ the confirmation, really; he’d put together that much already, at least. But he can’t deny the thrill that shivers through his veins when Harry’s smile widens and he confirms, “That was the day I watched you get undressed. Although,” he says with a considering air, “I did ask you _before_ that.”

“What does that mean?” Draco demands roughly. Harry presses his lips together, biting down on a smile, and refuses to answer, so Draco says, “I’ll send you back to your bed.”

“Can this be my bed?” Harry asks, smile breaking free despite his best — though resoundingly bad — efforts. 

“Did you wank, thinking of that?” Draco asks breathlessly, the energy building to charged again between them, like the low burning hum of static electricity. “Thinking of me?”

“I’m pretty sure you’d know that better than I would at this point,” Harry says with a low, rumbly laugh, eyes dancing up at him. 

“When you were awake,” Draco says. He presses harder against the deceptively frail bones on the insides of Harry’s wrists and rocks his hips a little. The visible amusement on Harry’s face fades, but not the twinkle in his gaze. “Did you? Were you a voyeuristic little pervert?” he demands, deliberately omitting the word _too_.

“Yeah. Yeah, I might’ve been,” Harry says, licking his lips. His cock has gone half-stiff again because of the kissing or the rolling around still selectively unclothed, or maybe just because of Draco’s face, perhaps reflecting the predatory hunger he feels. “What’re you going to do about it, Malfoy?”

Draco grins into the rough kiss he bestows on Harry, and then promptly shows him.

***

Now that he knows they’re actually dating — whatever that really means — Draco stops letting Harry treat him all the time; he can be generous too, if he wants. When he tells Harry that, Harry only laughs and shrugs and says he really doesn’t care, that he doesn’t want for much now that he’s got his friends and a future, which strikes Draco as ineffably stark, made worse by the way Harry really _doesn’t_ need to be spoiled with material goods. He was appropriately grateful when they went out to eat and Draco reached for galleon purse first when the cheque appeared, and he smiled and kissed Draco in the middle of Hogsmeade, ignoring the gaping of the surrounding passers-by, when Draco bought him a box of peppermint fudge — but then, he seemed just as happy when Draco finished his novel and passed it over as promised, without thinking. That had earned Draco a look so startlingly hot that he’d taken a step back, Harry dropping the book on his bed and stalking forward with clear intent in his eyes. 

It had also earned him his first blowjob five minutes later, standing next to his bed and gripping the bedpost to stay upright though his legs wanted to collapse under the tremendous pleasure of Harry on his knees, sucking his cock with quickly improving skill. 

In the short two weeks — near month, Harry insists — that they’ve been dating, such things have been happening with increasing regularity: while studying on the third night Harry decided to undo his flies and perch on top of his desk, and was Draco _not_ supposed to try his luck at sucking him off, then? Or later on in the showers? Or let Harry return the favour before they went to sleep that night, one calloused, tanned hand reaching up to roll Draco’s nipple between his fingers, the other ringed tight around the base of his prick as he bobbed his mouth wetly over the rest of it? Frankly, Harry’s bed has been all but abandoned in favour of Draco’s, despite how often Draco threatens to make him return to his own.

Even nearly toppling Draco’s tree when they got distracted applying the ornaments charmed with magical creatures — a Veela that entranced the observer with her eyes to leave them with a pleasant, tingling feeling in their fingertips when they finally let go; a unicorn stomping her hoof and tossing her glowing mane; a dragon spitting a mist of orange-blue fire and flying around the inside of the the glass orb as though caged — hadn’t been enough to put them off exploration of each other’s bodies. What began as an oddly domestic kiss when Draco simply handed Harry an ornament — filled with a lavender haze that revealed a team of fluttering fairies — turned into an urgent snog and breathless argument over who could get undressed the fastest, right before Draco knocked Harry into the wall, one of his legs curling around Draco’s calf as they’d rubbed themselves off on one another. Harry’s body draws him like a lodestone and, much to Draco’s fascinated disbelief, the reverse seems to be true, as well.

Perhaps due of the sheer physical exhaustion they’ve been subjecting each other to, Harry has only sleep wanked twice in the last week, waking up in Draco’s bed the following mornings to demand a demonstration of what had transpired — _both_ of which were promptly interrupted by Harry’s impatience, and both of which made them late for class. Still, Draco finds he doesn’t mind losing out on sleep at _all_ , now that he can be sure Harry likes it when he watches, can know that it’s a fantasy of his. Harry’s participation still wasn’t the same as when he was awake — he was still distant and vague in that slightly unnerving way, even as they wanked each other — but the fact that he smiled when he woke up nearly-naked and curled around Draco as if he’d sprouted tentacles in his sleep, did a lot to assuage any lingering guilt Draco felt.

And Draco knows it’s all going too fast to indicate something other than a swift, tempestuous burn and faster burnout. They’re racing ahead at reckless, breakneck speeds, determined to devour and explore and _do_ , and sometimes Draco thinks he should slow down, thinks he should tell _Harry_ to, but he’s spent _years_ worried about ‘should.’ His whole life, really, and that those dictates are largely what formed the choices that have left him near anchorless, and disdained by most of the wizarding world, probably says something. Now that he’s gotten something he _wants_ , now that he’s _happy_ — for however long — propriety can fuck off. 

He would perhaps be slightly less uneasy about his luck if Harry had any real idea of how a pureblood relationship went but Draco’s life has changed, anyway, and he doesn’t mind relaxing the rigorous standards of gift-giving in traditional courtship. Harry seems to like it when Draco just does something with no forethought, just because Harry is on his mind. 

But.

Draco _likes_ Christmas, and as the hols get nearer and students begin packing to leave for home, he begins to panic; he’s never not found the right gift to give, before.

When he’s near the point of giving up, he seeks out Weasley and Hermione — who are no help, whatsoever, as usual.

“What d’you mean, ‘what will Harry like’?” Weasley says when Draco corners them in the common room. Hermione’s socked feet rest in his lap as they sit on the couch and Weasley cups them with his freakishly large hands, almost encompassing them past the toes. “Harry likes everything.”

Draco waves an impatient hand. “That’s precisely my point. He likes everything, and has enough gold to buy what he wants for himself, and settles on novels and those art book stories and the occasional upkeep to his Firebolt.”

“Art books?” Hermione says, perking up.

“He’s shown me; they’re called comics,” Weasley says to her seriously. He pats her thigh when she looks at him, face twisting oddly. “I’ll explain later.”

She looks at him a second longer, snorts, and turns back to Draco. “Which means you can get him anything he doesn’t get for himself?”

“Yes, but if he can afford it, and doesn’t like it enough to _get_ it, what’s the point of me getting it _for_ him?” Draco Summons a nearby cushioned footstool and sits on it, trying not to look hopeless. He looks at Weasley. “Does he have a Wizarding chess set?”

“Yeah, o’course.” He scratches his head. “I mean, I haven’t actually seen it in a while? He liked to use his Muggle one over the summer, when he wanted to play in his sleep, but—”

Draco rolls his eyes, shaking his head to cut him off. To Hermione — marginally more observant — Draco asks, “What are the favourite gifts he’s gotten since you’ve known him?”

“Well, he seemed really pleased with the quills I got him last—” Hermione glances at Weasley, frowning, when he nudges her and rolls his eyes. She huffs. “He likes the Weasley jumpers Molly makes, and the watch the Weasleys gave him. He likes the album of his parents that Hagrid made for him, so perhaps homemade things, or things with a story; really, anything that makes him feel… Hm.” She goes quiet for a moment, her face soft with reflection in the common room firelight. Her breath trembles, just slightly, as she exhales. “He likes things that are personal; intimate. That make him feel connected to something,” she says.

And, just like that, Draco has ideas on what to get Harry for Christmas. 

He stands up, catching both lips between his teeth to bite back a smug smile as he gives her a nod. “Thank you.”

She nods at him, eyes large, and Draco leaves. Behind him, he can hear furious whispering, and then Weasley suddenly groans openly, but Draco doesn’t have time to look back.

He’s got things to _plan_.

***

“What are these ones?” Harry asks, looking down at the tiny, dully glimmering glass ornaments nestled within the velvet padding of the box that rests in his lap. There are eight of them, all of varying sizes but all small, the largest no bigger than the stone of a peach.

“Ah.” Draco reaches out and hooks his finger into the silver ribbon tied to the stem of one. He lifts it out gently, watching it spin and settle, feeling the slow spill of warmth for what’s rapidly become his favourite time of the day — decorating his Christmas tree with Harry, before bed. “These are magic.”

Harry laughs — that deep, quiet rumble that makes Draco’s insides flip over. “Aren’t they all?”

“Actual magic,” Draco explains, standing. He finds a spot next to a wintering ribbon and hangs it carefully. He touches it lightly with the pad of his finger once it’s secured. “Preserved magic. Like the memories.”

Curious, Harry comes over to watch as the sparks of gold begin zipping around the inside of the glass in an array of explosions. His voice is barely a breath. “Spells?”

Pleased, Draco nods. “Charms. When someone in my direct line develops an original spell, they preserve it in an ornament for display,” he says. “Since a lot of them have gone out of fashion to be replaced with potions or a newer version of the charm, we’ll always know what the original looked like. That,” he says, gesturing to the bright, shimmering display occurring in the ornament, “is what eventually turned into Felix Felicis.” He grimaces slightly. “But as I understand it, the spell itself was highly addictive, and also tended to drive wizards quite mad within days, so.”

“It’s really pretty,” Harry says as he studies it. The charm fades after a time and Harry lifts out another one. He hangs it on a lower branch and glances at Draco as if for permission before skimming his fingers against it. Draco smiles when it lights up in a shower of yellow-green sparkles.

“To recall a pleasant childhood memory you’ve forgotten,” he says when Potter gives him a questioning look. “But it had the side-effect on occasion of suspending the user when the spell took them too far back, and I suppose people complained about being stuck in a memory of themselves in filthy nappies.”

Harry snorts another laugh. “Still. These are cool.”

“I know,” Draco says, heart doing something warm and strange and twisty in his chest. He doesn’t mention the other box, the one he’d destroyed in a fit of fear when the Dark Lord was staying at the Manor; the one that held the Dark spells. They’d never displayed those anymore, anyway, and when his mother had gone to get the decorations during seventh year, he assumed she understood what had happened from the scorch marks on the floor of the attic; she simply gave him a very level look, her Occlumens up high even as her mouth twitched in an almost invisible smile. “Harry?”

“Yeah?” Harry looks away from the glimmer of spring colours, a lopsided grin on his face. He starts to lift out another one. “Can I?”

“Of course,” Draco says. He pauses for a moment as Harry examines the choices. “Do you remember seeing yourself offer to let me read your diary?”

“Hmm?” Harry picks one with a bright red ribbon. “Oh, your memories; yeah. Why? Do you want to now?”

“Could I?” Draco asks, relieved at not having to make a case now that Harry’s awake. Harry touches the newest ornament after he fits it onto a branch, his glasses reflecting the rich reds that swirl around like tiny starbursts, his face splitting in a wide smile that Draco can’t help but mirror. “A seasonal charm, to effect the elements for the day. Causes massive storms when done wrong, though.”

“Sure, of course. It’s mainly some of my ideas for, you know, articles,” Harry tells him, after a second, sounding faintly embarrassed. They tend to talk like this, in fits and starts, having two conversations at once when the topics sometimes sting. Draco likes it; it takes some of the pressure off. “Some personal thoughts about...the way things are,” he adds, sounding just uncomfortable enough to pique Draco’s curiosity. But, much to his disappointment, Harry doesn’t elaborate, and the long silence stretches until he finally looks away from the seasonal charm, his eyes growing faintly wicked. “Other personal thoughts, too.”

Draco taps him warningly on the shoulder. He takes an ornament and hangs it. “Thanks. I need to check something from it.”

A warm hand slides around Draco’s hip and he frowns reprovingly, though not enough that he’ll actually discourage. Harry sidles closer, pressing into his side; he sounds amused. “For Christmas presents, right?”

Vaguely resentful at the guess — he can admit to liking Harry now, but that doesn’t always make it any easier to be confronted with the fact that he’s not the total moron Draco’d thought him for years — Draco nudges him with his hip. “Maybe. You’re getting three.” He touches the ornament to test it and sighs when pale blue bubbles start floating in it, popping and reforming intermittently. Harry makes a curious sound against him, mouth on Draco’s throat, and Draco says, “Beauty Glamour. Left you with horrible pock marks for a month after it faded.” Harry chuckles, and Draco elbows him in the side — but again, not enough to discourage. “It’s tradition to open one on Christmas Eve.”

“I see.” Harry’s mouth slowly traverses the cords of Draco’s throat as Draco lifts out another ornament from the box and shakily applies it to the tree. “I’d like that. I’ve got you only two things, but I think you’ll like them.”

“I’m sure I will,” Draco says, not letting his head drop to the side like it wants. His stomach flutters at the idea that Harry would think to get him gifts, at all. Harry tilts his chin up to catch the shell of Draco’s ear with his teeth and flicks his tongue out, and Draco shudders in the act of touching the dangling ornament; it grows massively bright inside with a twirl of gold and silver entwining ribbons. He swallows and turns suddenly in Harry’s arms, plucking off his glasses as he does and dropping them on a side chair, unable to stand it anymore. And then they’re kissing, Harry managing by a thread to put down the box carefully before wrapping his arms around Draco’s waist. He’s just a bit shorter than Draco, but it doesn’t seem unnatural at all for him to lift Draco slightly, so that Draco’s toes drag on the floor when Harry stumbles them back to the bed.

They fall onto it, hands already working each other’s pyjamas off — Draco refuses to sleep naked; it’s too fucking cold, and the heating charms always fade before sunup — until they’re bare and gasping, both on their sides, Draco’s leg slung high over Harry’s hip as he grinds his cock into Harry’s. There are so many things he wants to do; with their clothing peeled away and the scent of Harry’s soap and sweat against him, Draco can’t decide if he wants them to touch each other, or wants Harry to suck his cock, or wants to suck Harry’s, or what. He feels a hard kernel of desire pitting in his stomach, with every brush of Harry’s stiff prick against his own, and if he doesn’t make a decision quick, they’ll end up finishing like this. Which would be grand, of course, but—

“Suck me,” Draco blurts out, voice high and light. Though Harry seems to love doing it, it still feels strange to simply _ask_ for something like that and actually entertain the possibility that it may happen. “Suck my cock.”

 _Will happen,_ he amends mentally when Harry pulls away from tonguing the pulse point at the hollow of Draco’s collarbone to look up. His eyes are hooded and dark, a strange and beautiful counterpoint to the sweet eagerness of his smile.

“Yeah,” he breathes, then presses a swift kiss to Draco’s mouth before slithering down his body. 

Draco rolls onto his back, pressing his hand over his eyes as Harry’s mouth travels over his stomach, causing the muscles to jump in response. Harry whispers moist little kisses down the slender line of hair from Draco’s belly button — after licking it, which makes Draco startle and Harry chuckle against his skin — all the way to his groin, wrapping two fingers around the root of Draco’s risen prick; lightly, just to keep it in place. He kisses around his fingers, flicking his tongue out to tease, and Draco widens his knees in response to allow Harry to situate himself between them. Harry groans, inhaling sharply, nose buried in Draco’s pubic hair — and if it’s a little embarrassing, still, to find that sort of thing a turn on, Draco finds he’s alright with it. 

“Please,” he says, feathering a hand over Harry’s hair, hips bumping up. He feels the warm breath of another laugh over the side of his cock, and then Harry is licking along the length of him with long, warm laps. His fingers squeeze the base of Draco’s cock tighter to angle it to the side as his mouth roves over it like it had over Draco’s stomach; open and slick and hot. He sucks along the line of it rather than taking it in his mouth, from the crown to the root. Draco’s fingers grow so tight over his eyelids, as he attempts not to beg, that he can see the pinpoint of stars. But the hand on Harry’s head tightens into a fist without his permission, and though surely it’s got to hurt, he can feel Harry’s hips rolling against the mattress as if he likes the sensation. 

Harry opens his mouth wider as he works his way back down to the crown of Draco’s cock, then starts licking the foreskin back; slow and steady, his tongue working underneath it to push it back and reveal more of the head. Draco’s cock spurts a thick slick of precome, as he lifts his hips higher in entreaty. 

“I like the way you taste,” Harry mumbles against him.

“Then _taste_ me, you bastard,” Draco snaps weakly, a humiliating squeak escaping his throat when Harry does just that and sips away the droplets of fluid collected at Draco’s slit. He doesn’t open his lips wide, just enough to spread them around the crown, but his tongue moves in light little swirls around the glans, sweeping over the swollen ridge up top and the sensitive underside again and again until Draco starts to grow desperate and applies pressure to Harry’s head with his gripping hand. Harry pulls back with a snort and goes lower to nuzzle his balls and the crease of his thigh. He releases Draco’s cock from his hand and Draco’s so hard it takes a moment to drop; when it does, it hits his stomach, then bobs preposterously. He’d be irritated if what Harry was doing didn’t feel so indescribably good, using his fingers to pull at the thin skin of his balls and lashing his tongue out over them too. _“Harry…”_

“Can I—” Harry gets out, muffled, one of Draco’s balls almost entirely in his mouth. Draco writhes helplessly, wanting to touch himself and also _not_ wanting to, because it’s so good and he wants it to last.

“Anything,” he says on a sharp gasp, pretty sure he means it. He’s thought a lot of about what “anything” could entail, and though he’s nervous, they haven’t hurt each other once since this started — not in any way that didn’t also feel good. Harry hums, sucking lightly, and then leaves off with a soft graze of teeth against his sac that makes Draco arch, makes him dig his heels into the mattress, toes curling. Harry shoulders his thighs wider and, distracted by the throb of pleasure that seems too confused to settle either in his balls or his jerking prick, Draco lets him press them outward until he’s splayed wide, but then Harry just… stays there. Draco removes his hand from his eyes and lifts up his head with some effort. “Are we going to…”

“I dunno,” Harry says, voice gone thick. Draco realises what he’s staring at, his body flushing red in an instant, and starts to close his thighs around Harry’s head, but Harry says, “Can I—?” again, and it comes out so ragged and hungry that he finds his legs going lax, eyes travelling up to the bed hangings as Harry’s meaning becomes clear. He doesn’t know why his cock leaks again at the idea of— of—

But Merlin, it _does_.

“Yeah,” he says, choking slightly on the word. He’s let Harry put his fingers in him, a couple of times — _after_ Harry let _him_ try it first, and seemed to like it — and it it feels bloody good with enough lube, but… “Yeah. Yes,” Draco says. With a surge of boldness, he adds, “Do it, Potter,” feeling a swell of desire and pride when Harry moans and rocks his hips hard over the duvet. 

Harry doesn’t hesitate; he leans forward and licks a long stripe up Draco’s crease. Draco’s whole lower half twists, and he doesn’t know if he’s trying to get away or not, but it gives Harry the opportunity to bring both hands underneath him, to cup his arse and tug Draco’s hips closer, teeth nipping over his arshole and tongue pressing flat against it in fast, long strokes. Draco doesn’t know if his technique is good or not — truthfully, he’s no longer even sure of his own name, or that of the obviously imagined entity lying between his spread thighs doing unspeakable things with his obviously imagined magical tongue — but in the distant corner of his mind still able to process rational thought, he supposes that it doesn’t matter, not it if it _feels_ so extraordinary. He curls his shoulders up to reach Harry’s hair better, then threads his fingers through it again to drag Harry’s face even closer so he can rock against him, heels slipping for purchase to gain leverage. Harry makes another one of those muffled moans, only this time it vibrates against his rim and Draco gasps, wanting… wanting…

Then, even that distant corner of his brain shuts down, because Harry latches his lips hard around his hole and starts _sucking_ , and worms his _tongue_ inside. Draco feels it in his fucking toes, in his balls and cock and spine and chest; it spreads through him in hot demanding waves of pleasure, and, and, “Oh my god I’m going to come. I’m going to come, fuck, don’t stop, Potter, eat me, I’m so—”

A low growl is his response, and wet, sloppy sounds, and Harry’s fingers digging into his buttocks, thumbs keeping them pried apart though Draco’s arse tries to clench with overwhelming pleasure. His response is that tongue moving deeper into him — that tongue _fucking_ him; _Harry’s_ tongue. He reaches up with one hand to place his hand flat over Draco’s cock, finding it without looking, and Draco howls out a sob when he squeezes it, shuddering and fisting his hands ruthlessly in Harry’s hair as a strange brightness grows in his periphery; his cock rises and jerks against Harry’s clasp, spurting out come all over his belly. He feels his arse clamp rhythmically around Harry’s still-moving tongue, but he’s too astonished by the force of his climax to do anything but ride it out until the pleasure starts to ease off and even become too much. Going limp, he forces himself to loosen his hands and drag them from Harry’s head, gulping and resting them on his messy stomach as he stares blankly above himself, trying to catch his breath and recapture some semblance of sanity.

Harry Potter just... ate his arsehole.

Harry Potter is his _boyfriend_ , and just ate his arsehole.

His mind suddenly conjures the odd memory of being six years old and telling his mother to wake him when Father Christmas arrived. He remembers throwing a strop when she apologised and reminded him that the kindly wizard wasn’t able to visit children older than five, that parents took over then, to give joy and and begin training a proper wizard how to make sure his wishes came true. 

He feels justified for that strop, now, with Harry’s saliva dripping from his fluttering arse. Because there’s _no way_ he could have orchestrated this miracle _without_ the help of Father Christmas. Who still must be fond enough of Draco to visit a few days early.

It’s the only logical explanation, really.

“Draco,” Harry says pleadingly; the rocking of the bed grows harder — it creaks a little, under them — and Draco gets the sense it’s not the first time Harry’s said his name in the last few moments. He smiles, urgency muted but still skittering along his nerve endings.

“Come here,” he tries, raspily; he licks his lips and clears his throat a little and says it again, “Come here. Come on, Harry.”

Harry rises above him, crawling over him to pause in a straddle over his hips, closing his eyes when Draco reaches for him, then promptly letting them fly open when Draco curls a hand around his hip and urges him to shuffle higher, onto his chest. Harry obeys, confused but willing; his swollen cock drags and bounces against Draco’s abdomen and over his chest as he scoots up and then settles, bent knees tucked into Draco’s armpits, arse warm and firm against his skin. Draco crooks his elbow and stuffs one hand under his head, smiling lazily, and says, “I’m going to suck you off, and then you’ll come on my face, like before.”

“I’m going to—? Wait, when—?” 

He breaks off with a low grunt when Draco opens his mouth and sucks his prick in. He likes doing it, likes the way it makes Harry tremble, likes the weight of Harry’s cock heavy on his tongue. He even likes the way his jaw sort of hurts afterward, a little ache reminding him — when he hinges it from side to side to loosen it later — of what they recently did. Mostly, though, he likes the _sounds_ Harry makes, little deep groans and higher-pitched gasps; mumbled words that Draco thinks might be dirty talk if Harry had enough accessible synapses to enunciate. Harry reaches out with one hand to steady himself against the headboard, canting his hips forward to press deeper into Draco’s mouth. 

Harry’s already so wet at the tip, his foreskin dampened by his ruts against the mattress as he’d licked into Draco, and Draco laps over the moisture on every draw-back of Harry’s hips. He’s always so careful not to go too deep, but that’s not what Draco wants tonight; he wants Harry to lose as much control as he had, so he curls his fingers to cup Harry’s arse cheek and guides him into a better rhythm, a better depth of force. He does what he can to relax his throat, Harry finally getting the idea with a soft, wondering sound of pleasure and thrusting with more abandon — long, sweet slides of his prick that nudge past Draco’s gag reflex until it’s almost _easy_ to take Harry in so far, to suck him down so deep, if he remembers to time his breathing through his nose. Harry’s foreskin bunches and smooths under Draco’s slipping tongue and against his soft palate, and he huffs with frantic, increasingly broken breaths; Draco can feel his balls tighten against chin, can feel the increasing tension in the thighs trembling around him and the muscles under his hand. He slides his hand inward, fingers questing, and locates Harry’s hole; not having any way of conjuring lube — and fuck if he’s going to stop Harry to slick his fingers with saliva — he simply rubs over the furrowed spot with his middle and index fingers, circling and tracing it; pressing against it lightly. 

Making a sharp, surprised sound above him, Harry jerks and gasps, knocking the headboard he’s grasping into the wall. And as much as Draco wants him to come like this, there’s time for that later, he thinks. He pulls his hand away from Harry’s arse and gives the front of Harry’s hipbone a nudge — then a harder one, because it’s already a split second too late; Harry’s cock is throbbing against his tongue even as he pulls out of Draco’s mouth with a whimper, leaving his first stripe of spunk in Draco’s mouth. He strokes himself off for the rest of it, eyes bottomless and almost stark as he stares down at the way his come paints Draco’s lips and chin. “Oh fuck, oh _fuck_ ,” he groans, hand fast and tight on his prick. 

When it’s over, he stays there for a few moments, risen on his knees and looking downward, unblinking. Then he swings his leg up and over, and slides down in a strange, heaping configuration of limbs that somehow resembles a puddle. Draco grins, smug and pleased; he darts out a tongue over a dribble of come on his lip. 

“Jesus,” Harry mumbles, finding the strength to resituate himself and lean in. He kisses Draco, tongue licking off his own come on Draco’s lips, before plunging inside for a long, devastatingly good kiss. Draco turns onto his side to get more of it, to get more of _him_ , and they breathe quietly into each other for a time, snogging, before Harry finally pulls away. His eyes are drowsy and satiated and warm. “I’d imagined doing that; you have _no_ idea.”

“Obviously, I _do,_ ” Draco drawls, then slants Harry a smile when he snorts and rises up on his elbow, propping his head up with his fist. There’s no logical reason for him to blush at this point, but he feels a renewed warmth in his face when he says, “I liked it, too.”

“‘Like before,’ you said,” Harry mutters, looking at him quite hard.

“Oh. Well…” Draco looks at him. “Bugger.”

Blank, Harry shakes his head for a moment, then pauses — then starts shaking it harder. “I didn’t.”

“...Of course not.”

“You wouldn’t have _let_ me!” Harry says, astonished, ignoring him. 

_Then why ask?_ Draco wonders, managing not to roll his eyes.

“Of course I wouldn’t have,” he says drily. “Do I really seem the type?” He reaches up calmly to swipe off a streak of come on his cheekbone with his thumb and starts to lick it off; Harry laughs, face flushed and dampened with sweat, eyes bright and amazed. He grabs Draco’s wrist and brings it to his mouth instead, sucking the thumb in to the knuckle and licking away the leavings of his own climax, and Draco’s breath catches; he doesn’t know where this thing between them is going, but the improbable answer seems to be… _somewhere._

He smiles when Harry releases his thumb and starts to lean toward him for another kiss, but Harry murmurs, “You ornament is still all lit up.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Draco snorts, but turns to see what Harry means, eyes widening. The last ornament he’d hung, the ribbons inside twirling around each other as he and Harry’d fallen into bed, has gotten brighter and brighter in the meantime, almost pulsing out great waves of energetic glow in silvery-gold. 

“What magic’s in that one?” Harry asks, too innocently for the way Draco’s heart skips several beats in a row. Draco considers lying, but Harry has a soft, affectionate fascination on his face as he looks from Draco to the ornament — which, finally, is beginning to dim — and back, and really, he doesn’t see the point; may as well be upfront and see what happens.

Merlin, he’s turning into a bloody Gryffindor.

“Bonding charm,” he explains, a little stiffly. “It identifies and measures compatibility in a pair; physical, mental, emotional. Their goals, et cetera. The brighter it gets, the better chance a pairing has of succeeding.” He swallows. “It’s a short lived charm, too; the longer it lasts, the more compatible a pairing is.”

Far from looking displeased or scared of what that may mean, Harry looks thoughtful; he dances his fingers over Draco’s stomach absently, studying the weakening show of light emanating from the ornament. “What went wrong with it?”

“What?” Draco knits his brow.

“All of the others,” Harry says. “Face boils and nappies.”

“Pock marks,” Draco corrects automatically. Then, slowly, “Nothing.” He looks over at it again, swallowing. “It’s just beautiful, so it was preserved. It’s the same spell that Matched and eventually Bonded my parents. The glow of their Match only lasted for fourteen minutes, before their betrothal.” Draco doesn’t need to look at the clock to know it’s been at least twice that long since hanging the damned thing.

“It’s beautiful,” Harry says, low. “What happens if one of the ornaments breaks?”

“It latches on to the nearest person,” Draco says, “or whomever it’s been directed at.”

“But you know the spell?”

Draco’s heart stutters again; that cannot be remotely healthy, so why he smiles, he’s at a loss to explain. He nods. “I know the spell,” he says, disturbed, forcing away the image of Harry, handsome in formal white robes, standing straight and tall and sure with him under an arch of candles.

They’re _eighteen_ , for fuck’s sake. And have been dating for a _month_ — sort of — after years of rancor.

Harry doesn’t look disturbed at all. Nor about to drop on bended knee, and Draco tries to decide why he feels both relieved and deflated. But then Harry gives that thoughtful hum again, kisses Draco, and simply says “Good.”

And, somehow, it is.

***

Draco spends the next few days wrapped up in Harry, now that classes have ceased for the term. The Weasleys have plans, apparently, to visit the dragon tamer this Christmas in Romania, understandably feeling the need for distance this year from previous holidays, the way his mother had. Harry tells him that they have a portkey out on Christmas morning, so Weasley and Hermione linger until then, popping back and forth between Hogwarts and the Weasley home via the headmistress's Floo. Occasionally Harry joins them — he’s elected to stay at Hogwarts for the whole of the hols this year, for some reason — and tentatively invites Draco to join, but Draco’s mind flashes to the scars he’d seen on the eldest one’s face, and his answer is such a firm _no_ , that Harry doesn’t ask again. 

Still, the Weasley matriarch sends back little things — _for you_ , Harry insists — like homemade treats with flavours that rival those made in Paris’s finest pâtisseries, and an oddly lumpy gift wrapped in shiny green paper, that gets placed beneath his tree. They eat the sweets in bed, or while they talk in mumbles in the near-empty common room, legs slung over each other’s on the sofa, almost comfortably. They go for walks every day down to the freezing lake — once catching Hagrid having what looked to be a strangely private conversation with one of the Giant Squid’s tentacles, if the fast-rising blush beneath his beard was anything to go by — and Hermione and Weasley accompany them, neither of them raising an eyebrow when Harry takes Draco’s gloved hand, with no clue what it does to his heart.

And when Harry’s gone, Draco reads his diary intently, not sure how to feel about the more personal tidbits or the scrawl of Draco’s name with several question marks after it in the beginning. Mentions of him are littered throughout in small asides, things like, _Told Ron and Hermione he’d be fine with the sleepwalking if I have to go off the potions. He seems like he’s trying really hard this year,_ and — as if that weren’t bad enough — _Overheard Malfoy apologize to a second year the Carrows forced him to punish last spring. I don’t think he knows how much I saw. Doesn’t want to talk about it. Neither do I, but…_ Harry mentions things in passing, like having had dreams about Draco for years and not really knowing why, and Draco doesn’t know what to think when he reads Harry’s description of him as _smart, and I think sort of sensitive, perhaps. Nicer, I mean. I think maybe his dad told him that wasn’t allowed. He’s still a bit of an arshole, but I think it’s got to be hard to come to grips with the fact that you were wrong about so many things, but I can tell he’s working on it._ It makes Draco’s throat ache and his eyes prickle, and he pretends to be busy with an extra credit project for two hours after Harry returns to Hogwarts, just so he doesn’t have to look at him.

In between those are bits of writing that are so surprising and impressive, Draco’s breath catches; a loosely constructed article on why so many corrupted officials haven’t been ousted from the Ministry yet; excerpts of an in-progress piece about the way the wizarding and Muggle worlds treat and raise orphans and other outliers, using his own life as an example. He stops reading when he gets to the part where Harry writes about waking up sure he’d sleep walked — _Malfoy looked at me funny, this morning, and I feel rather blurry and tired. Pretty sure I said something to him in my sleep, dammit. I thought I was done with this_ — mostly because he doesn’t want any of his own memories to be possibly changed by what Harry thought. But a new insight, a new thread of possibility tangles deeper into him by what he _does_ read, and when he hands Harry’s diary back to him, Harry gives him a small smile and tucks it away without comment.

Christmas Eve dawns crisp and clear after a few days of light snow flurries that leave the ground a frozen white, the barest hints of packed brown earth peeking through. Draco is woken up with a lazy kiss and an even lazier handjob, to which he promptly reciprocates, not even cringing that Harry hasn’t used a breath charm yet as he wanks him with slow, sure strokes, Harry’s hips undulating into Draco’s fist and mouth going slack against his when he comes. They have breakfast together, and then he spends the rest of the day in the quiet of the castle after Harry and his friends leave; he Floo calls his mother and Pansy, then sends off owls laden with their gifts, dutifully writes to his father. And, with great relief, receives his own owl early in the evening, giving him the opportunity to wrap its contents and Harry’s other gifts and place them under Harry’s bright Muggle tree. 

Harry shows up later than expected, well after dinner, but with such a sly look in his eyes that Draco kisses him back anyway. 

“What.” He stares at Harry, pressing his lips together to show a total lack of amusement, despite the way Harry grins at him like a wizard drinking the the upper-shelf potions. “What did you do.”

Pulling out a little box from his cloak, Harry displays it with another wicked look. “I got you another present. Last minute addition.”

“Oh.” Draco takes the perfect square of a box; it’s light in his hands, though it looks heavy, the size of a pomegranate and decorated in sparkling glass melted over cedar. He coughs a laugh, shaking his head when Harry frowns, some of his excitement melting away. “I mean, thank you,” he says wryly, then nods to Harry’s tree. “It’s just…”

Harry turns to look, face startled when he spies the two perfect, square, pomegranate-sized boxes with a sharp lacquer of melted glass resting there next to his other gifts from various friends, along with a flat, rectangular gift wrapped in gleaming red. After lighting up for a brief moment, his face falls, and he glances at Draco with an odd combination of confusion and disappointment.

“What?”

Smiling ruefully, Harry shakes his head. “Nothing. Just— there are three from you.”

“Well, yes,” Draco looks at them, bewildered. “I’d said.”

“Right, but I thought—” Breaking off with a snort, he shakes his head again. Draco narrows his eyes, examining him closely and noting the high flush that starts to bleed over his cheekbones. Harry’s face smooths out after a second and he gives a brief chuckle, looking at the gift in Draco’s hands. “So we got each other ornaments? That’s fun—”

“Harry,” Draco says, cutting him off quietly. He clears his throat and passes his present back, then reaches up to tug his tie loose; his hands remain steady somehow, though his heart is suddenly racing. “Go put that under my tree.”

Harry stares at him for a long moment, gaze resting on Draco’s hands, nimbly pulling his tie free of his collar. Draco reaches down and grips the edges of his jumper, pulling it off with one smooth motion that leaves his hair ruffled. He smooths it back, mouth quirking up to one side when Harry’s lips part, then starts swiftly on the buttons of his shirt, and this finally seems to startle Harry into action; he scurries quickly to Draco’s tree and sets the box in the front near his two others with a careful bend at the waist, then turns around. His eyes widen when Draco pulls his shirttails free, no matter that they’ve seen each other naked dozens and dozens of times at this point. 

“Draco,” he says, strained, able to read the tension in the room and Draco’s deliberation how Draco wants him to, “I didn’t mean that we had to—”

Draco stops in the act of toeing off his shoes, his hands resting on his zipper. He smiles, feeling his face warm. “You thought we’d have sex,” he says, managing to make it sound simple even though his mouth is dry. 

Suddenly awkward — for the first time since waking up naked in Draco’s bed — Harry stills, then gives a jerky nod. His Adam’s apple bobs. “Hermione said what she’d told you about, um.” He swallows. “About gifts. Sorry. I got the wrong idea.”

“You really, really did,” Draco says, smirking. He finishes unzipping his flies and sits on the edge of his bed to bend and peel off his socks — there’s no real graceful way to do it — before standing again to strip his trousers and pants off. His pulse flutters in his throat, because… because… “You thought your Christmas Eve gift would to shag me,” he says, just to clarify.

“Yeah. Sorry,” Harry says again, looking as though he’s not sure how to proceed. Draco can see the tenting of his trousers, and he lets his smile widen. He’s more than half-hard and damp already as he stands naked before Harry, and his cock stiffens a bit more when Harry’s eyes drop to it. 

“I’d have done it with you that first night, I think,” Draco says quietly. The words make him feel exposed, but for once he doesn’t have to force them from his throat; they just come out, as bizarrely easy as this whole thing between them has been. “At the very least when you… You know,” he says, scrubbing his palm over his face with a disjointed laugh, then running his hand through his hair. “A few days ago. I already said; anything. I’d like to,” he adds, in history’s most massive understatement, ever. 

Harry takes a halting step forward, as though he can’t believe his luck, which is improbably hilarious. He unpins his cloak at the throat, then strips off his jumper and t-shirt, turning them inside out together. He removes his glasses and tosses them on his own bed, eyes dark. But his voice is grating and low when he says, “You haven’t been with anyone else—”

“Should I have been?” Draco asks archly. “You haven't.” He brings his hand to his cock and he gives it a few strokes. 

“I might’ve, if I’d had the time. That must mean something.” Harry pauses in the act of disrobing, uncertain. “Shouldn’t it be special for you?”

Draco clears his throat and looks away. “It shouldn’t _have_ to be, you know. But.” He swallows, electing not to point out that he’d never let someone else come on his face before, either. Instead, softly, he says, “It will be.”

And that’s true, he finds. Harry Potter — his unlikely boyfriend for however long, who kisses him and touches him and laughs with him and… and is his _friend_ — thought of sleeping with Draco, of having him, as a gift _he’d_ receive. 

A _gift_.

For a moment, Harry looking at him, intent and serious, Draco feels like one.

“It will be for me, too” Harry says, then. Draco nods absently, waiting for Harry to finish undressing so—

“Wait, what?” His hand falls off his cock, and he sits up straighter.

Harry unbuttons and unzips his jeans, and makes short work of removing them along with his shoes and socks, explaining as he goes. “I mean, opportunities or no, I’m glad it’s with you.” Left shoe, right shoe. “I...noticed you. Even when I didn’t like you.” Left sock, right sock. “And now I really, really like you,” he says with a soft, embarrassed cough. “I just didn’t want to assume that you...” He licks his lips. “That _we_ were, y’know, ready. It’s been fast,” he says. Jeans, pants.

Draco nods faintly. “It has been.” Sort of. 

Sort of not.

“But I, yeah.” Harry walks up to him, and if not for the slight tremor in his voice and swollen cock revealing his nerves and excitement, he’d seem perfectly steady. He presses the latter against Draco’s abdomen and tilts Draco’s chin up with one finger to look at him. “I thought you should know,” he says, and dips his head.

Draco halts Harry with a hand on his chest, and this is _not_ what he imagined his first full shag being like — the moments before filled with awkward emotional confessions and deliberate undressing; especially not for _them_ — but his own voice catches with his breath when he says, “What do you want, Potter?”

Harry’s eyes crinkle around the corners even as they grow sharp and fierce; up this close, the green’s shot through with pale amber flecks. “I want to live my own life now.”

Taking a deep breath, Draco says, “You never told me why you were taking the sleeping potions. Why you stopped, if sleepwalking was such a risk.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Harry looks at him for a moment, then straightens, frowning. “Healer Wilkins said I’d reached the limit I could take before developing a dependency. And I’ve been in… You know, therapy. For—” He waves a hand, again dismissing the whole of the war before saying, “—what happened with Voldemort. Riddle. The stuff I told you about. She said that I was only sleepwalking because I needed to work things out, and that once I did, it’d likely stop.”

Draco pauses. “You haven’t sleep-walked in almost two weeks.” He hitches his shoulders a touch. “At least, not that I’m aware.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I suppose you’re all well and healed then, from the war?” he asks, doubtfully. 

“No.” Harry sighs. “But I can talk about that stuff now, instead of just letting it live in my head. For a couple of months, I couldn’t even talk about it to Ron and Hermione, let alone Wilkins.” He hesitates. “But, er, talking while I was asleep I guess helped?”

“And your accidental magic, blowing out the windows of the Weasley house?”

Harry scratches his scar with a grimace and Draco’s eyes are drawn to the way it becomes misshapen as his forehead crinkles. “It’s why I practice wandless in my sleep, she thinks. I never could, before. Before the— The battle.” He looks at Draco, one dark eyebrow hooking up as Draco processes that silently. “Anymore questions, or can I kiss you now? We don’t have to—”

“Why the wanking?” Draco blurts. “I’m assuming — that is, I _hope_ ,” he adds snidely, “that you didn’t do that with Weasley.”

A new blush flares over Harry’s cheekbones and Draco studies him, intrigued. “Another thing I was working out,” he says, then meets Draco’s eyes. “About you. The things I wanted.”

“To wank in my face?” Draco says, cock jumping a little, unsure if he should laugh, sneer, or drag Harry down and be done with it. 

Harry nods with pseudo gravity, lips twitching again. “That’s one way of putting it.” He crosses his arms in front of him, suddenly looking strangely vulnerable, then says, “Finding I liked you, this year. That I could look at you differently, after—”

“Me too,” Draco interrupts. Harry looks at him, confused, and Draco lets his gaze skim down Harry’s body, naked before him. He’s done with talking; he has more than enough answers. He looks back up, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “I want to live my life, too.”

Harry bends again and kisses him without hesitation. He traces the inside of Draco’s lower lip with his tongue before pressing it deeper and stroking Draco’s own, like he’s _thought_ about how this should go, that it should be different from their tumbles before. Only, as Draco starts to pant, Harry lowering his mouth to string soft kisses against his neck, it _doesn’t_ feel that different. A new sort of awareness is there, but so is _Harry,_ , his mouth and his smell; his hands coming up to press Draco back onto the mattress. Draco groans when Harry plants his knees outside of Draco’s thighs and grinds his cock against him; he reaches up and grips handfuls of Harry’s hair, pulling him deeper into a kiss that feels at once clumsier and _better_ than any they’ve had before; more exhilarating. 

“How are we—?” Harry starts to ask in a shaky mumble against Draco’s mouth.

“How do you want?” Draco asks, feeling more confident. Harry rocks against him, skimming their pricks together between their stomachs, and already sounds a little unhinged. 

“I’d like to— I’m mean, either way, but…”

“You,” Draco says, nipping at his jaw, “should put your cock in me tonight.” And when Harry shudders and nods, forehead falling to Draco’s shoulder, it seems exactly right — though Harry does laugh a bit brokenly when Draco adds, “We’ll do it the other way some other time,” lest he get the wrong idea.

“Yeah.” Harry raises his head, licking his own lips, then flicking his tongue out over Draco’s. “All of it; we’ll do all of it.” He lays flat over Draco for a second, bringing his legs in, and nudges Draco’s thighs open with one knee. Draco shivers, skimming his hands down Harry’s back and feeling the muscles shift subtly under his warm skin as he allows Harry to settle into the cradle of his hips. He summons the lube from his nightstand that they’ve already used for fingers, pressing an eager kiss to Draco’s mouth and popping the tube open without hesitation. He rises between Draco’s legs and sits back on his heels and Draco thinks abstractly that Harry’s cock might look comical jutting out as it does if it didn’t also make him dizzy with wanting to touch it. Draco heaves himself up too, balancing on one hand with his thighs still spread wide as he reaches for it. 

Harry pauses, casting him a look that’s half-smile, half-warning. “I’m, uh.” He squirts some of the lubricant over his fingers, looks, and then adds a little more. “I’d like to try to— before—”

Grinning, Draco keeps his touch light and loose; he traces the length of Harry’s prick, stroking over it with one finger and letting his thumb press against the opposite side in a gentle hold. “Then don’t come yet,” he says, stifling a snicker.

“Wanker,” Harry mutters, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“You’re one to tal—” Draco starts to scoff, but Harry grips his hip and leans in to kiss him, hard and fervent, his free hand moving between Draco’s legs. He gives Draco’s cock a slippery stroke in his grip and Draco yelps, hips rising off the bed for a second before coming down hard as Harry’s hand releases him and moves lower, slipping between his buttocks. Draco’s ability to tease dries up; he scoots a bit and scoops his back so that he’s positioned more on his tailbone than his arse, widening his legs just a touch more. His eyes fall shut as Harry finds his hole and massages it with slick fingers, slipping one inside and then out, then again and again until Draco barely realises what’s happening, his sphincter is twitching with so many nerves coming to life as it’s repeatedly stimulated. He falls onto his back again, muscles going wobbly and cock dribbling out a small string of precome, and hears Harry’s breath leave him with a _whoosh_. His hand pauses.

“Keep going,” Draco says hoarsely. “Feels good. Keep going.”

Harry drags his eyes up; he swallows and nods, this time pushing two fingers in and doing the same thing. Draco palms his cock, trapping it between the hard line of his hipbone and hand, careful not to apply too much pressure. He cants his hips up and hears himself whinge softly.

“I want—” Harry slips his fingers deeper, then drags them out to the tips, pushing further with each slide in. His dark brows knit close, lip sucked between his teeth, and Draco wants to help, but all he can do is push back against Harry’s hand to facilitate the ease of entry, too mindless with the sensations swamping him. He notices blankly that Harry’s breath is ragged, that his eyes are nearly black as he continues to finger Draco open, using his hand to soften the resistant clench of Draco’s muscles into a cling for long minutes as Draco writhes beneath him, legs moving restlessly. 

“A-another,” Draco says, breathless, cock leaking steadily. He feels the pleasure like little pinpricks all over his body, stemming from where Harry’s fingers tease their way in and out of him.

“Draco,” he chokes out, in what sounds like a denial. But then he pulls his fingers out and adds a third, more than they’ve done yet. Draco feels a surge of euphoria at the burn of it as his arse stretches steadily around the girth of Harry’s fingers with every pump because it manages to feel just as good; even the discomfort is thrilling, tweaking the knowledge that his body is accommodating Harry, allowing him in. Then Harry groans, his eyes glinting darkly as he flashes them back to Draco’s face, and he suddenly covers him again, mouth desperate on Draco’s throat. He presses damp, frantic kisses there, and rubs his cock against the crease of Draco’s thigh, moistening him there too. “Please,” he gasps out, almost too quietly to hear. “Please, let me.”

Draco gulps in a bit of air, forcing his mind back enough at Harry’s entreaty to nod. “Yeah.” He turns his head and bites at Harry’s earlobe a little too hard when Harry’s fingers brush over that tantalising bundle of nerves inside him. “On your back.”

“My—”

“Your _back_ , Potter, _fuck,_ ” Draco says, stomach tightening as he presses up against Harry and curls a leg around his hip to urge him over. Harry goes, flipping over with him and removing his fingers as he does, smearing them hurriedly over his cock, then scrabbling for purchase on Draco’s waist. Draco leaves off his own cock and pushes Harry’s shoulders into the bedding, breathing fast, dazed and hungry for he’s not sure what. His arse feels a little tender, a little strange, but sensitive — it’s _weird_ to be so aware of one’s own arsehole, he thinks, but his prick seems to like it, twitching with every shift he makes; he’s already so close. 

Harry digs one hand into the muscle at Draco’s waist and the other onto his tensed thigh, and Draco straddles him. He considers a moment, then rises up and grasps Harry’s cock, angling it until he can feel the rounded head of it press into the right spot. Harry stares up at him, almost frozen but for his hands, which clench repetitively against him as Draco sucks in a breath and starts lowering down, gritting his teeth. 

“Malf—” Harry breaks off, face twisted, and Draco wiggles his hips, allowing gravity to help. He hisses with the anticipation of pain when the head of Harry’s cock almost _pops_ inside, startling and almost unexpected. But it _doesn’t_ hurt, not like he thought it would. He sinks down lower, jaw loosening, and a small, breathy _“oh”_ escapes him with each inch more Harry slides inside. There’s discomfort, yes, a burning, stretching sensation different than Harry’s fingers; Harry’s cock is solid and thick and full. But it’s that very fullness that feels so good, obliterating any underlying pain — Draco can feel the thick ridge of Harry’s cock, can feel the way it jerks. He settles, arse pressing flush with Harry’s hips, and breathes, Harry lodged fully inside him.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, adjusting to the newness of it. He rocks tentatively, then harder with a low moan, feeling dizzy and lightheaded as he works his hips back and forth with slow rolls, rising up to take Harry more shallowly, so his prick fits against the right spot, then starts to move with more intent, getting quickly lost in it, letting his eyes drift shut. He can feel his prick bounce intermittently against Harry’s stomach and the two sensations are so perfectly matched, feel _so good,_ that he arches forward a bit to drag his prick against Harry’s skin. He hears his name — first, last — but can’t quite make himself open his eyes and break his focus, until a fast, deep thrust upward of Harry’s hips drags him back. 

Harry stares upward, jaw hard and mouth flat with a desperate sort of restraint; his fingers bite hard into Draco’s skin, and his brow is beaded with sweat, his shaggy hair in disarray all over the pillow. “Malfoy,” he says, voice breaking in the middle, “faster. God. More.”

Draco shivers, and lowers himself over Harry, planting his hands on the mattress. “You can move too, you know,” he says with what should come out a smirk but feels more like a smile. Harry exhales shakily, eyes bright. He raises his head to kiss Draco, simultaneously gripping both of his hips hard to yank their bodies together just as he thrusts up again. Draco’s smile vanishes, the dreamy-hot sensation of riding Harry’s prick slowly replaced with a streak of such _need_ that he hears a growl break free from his throat— louder when Harry does it again. Harry’s eyes are locked on his, narrow and challenging; he licks his lips, and Draco tenses his thighs, rising when Harry relaxes for a second into the bed and then bouncing hard down against him to meet him in the middle when Harry pumps back up. “Like— like that, yeah,” Draco says voice gone a little higher, sinking onto his forearms. The movement wedges their rocking bodies together, his cock slipping between between them. His balls are tight and drawn up between his thighs, and he can feel the shift of Harry’s coarse pubic hair against them each time he shimmies his hips, can feel Harry’s breath against him as their mouths collide in little, open-mouthed half-kisses. 

“I’m going to come,” Harry whispers against him. Their fucking has become a fast grind, Harry barely pulling out at all before pushing deeper, Draco shimmying his hips rather than raising them. He feels lit up from the inside, where they’re connected, little shocks of pleasure sparking outward.

“I want you to,” Draco whispers back, chest aching. It’s such an odd thing to notice amongst everything else; he chalks it up to the way he can feel the frantic knocking of Harry’s heart against him. Then Harry levers himself up, propping himself with one hand behind him again, and curls a tight arm around Draco’s waist to keep them clamped together. His knees crook up, too, sliding Draco closer against him, and then his hips are pumping into him relentlessly, eyes squeezing shut and breath wheezing. He barely cries out when he comes — just makes a quiet, shuddery noise that sounds like pain, turning his face so his cheek rests against the curve of Draco’s shoulder. Draco feels that noise in his bones, feels Potter’s sharp pleasure as if it’s his own, like an ache he’s carried for so very long, finally being relieved. He feels the wetness spread in him, warm and pulsing as Harry’s cock throbs over and over, and he gives a low, frustrated cry because everything feels too good, but he can’t— can’t quite—

Harry’s eyes blink open; he lifts his head, that tightness still etched over his face. He fits a hand into the absence of space between them and finds Draco’s cock, curling his fist around it. He presses his thumb against the flat underside of the glans and rolls his hips more methodically, eyes hot on Draco’s face as he executes a series of tiny squeezes and a small pull. Draco gasps and comes, wriggling down on Harry’s hips to get more of his still-hard cock as his own shoots out long stripes between them, over Harry’s hand and against his chest. He kisses Harry blindly — ear, temple, jaw — as pleasure crashes over him, his arms slung tight around Harry’s shoulders, whole body shaking with release. 

They sit like that for long minutes as their breath dies down and their sweat begins to dissipate. Long after it starts to become uncomfortable, after Harry’s cock softens and starts to slip from him, Harry holds him tight, breathing against his throat in soft, warm puffs. Draco blinks the blur from his eyes and finally pries his head up, heart still hammering. Harry smiles and tilts his head up to kiss him, and Draco’s arms tighten again fractionally until he pulls away. 

“I think it’s Christmas,” Harry murmurs. 

Draco blinks and nods, carefully sliding off him and glancing at his desk clock. With a small wince at the different twinges in his body — it turns out that shagging actually uses _more_ muscles than flying, something he hadn’t thought possible — he reaches for his wand and casts a quick freshness charm over his bedding, then a cleaning spell over Harry and himself. He briefly debates summoning his pyjamas and a muscle relaxation potion, knowing he’s going to feel this in the morning, but refrains with a yawn and slips under the covers next to Harry, who’s already made himself comfortable against the pillows. 

“You can open your other gifts in the morning,” Draco says drily, spelling off the lights.

“Think there might be another one like this?” Harry asks, mouth tilting up at one corner. Draco rolls his eyes, not allowing the thrill that rips through his body to show on his face.

“Not til I get a turn,” he says.

“That can be arranged,” Harry says, mirroring his yawn. He edges subtly closer and Draco gives in with a sigh, turning on his side and letting Harry curl against him in the position they so often wake up in. Harry’s arm winds around his ribcage and he hoists one leg over Draco’s, his cock soft against the top of Draco’s buttocks, and Draco feels a weak thrum of lust shimmer through him, though he’s way too tired and sore to do anything about it. He looks at his tree, his blinks getting slower and longer as he studies the faint gleam of the crystal ornaments, lit up only by the reflection of Harry’s twinkling decorations.

“Oh,” he says sleepily. “It’s Christmas.” He snags his wand again and points it at his tree, mumbling the spell; he smiles when Harry’s head pops up at the renewed brightness in the room. Draco cranes his neck to look at Harry’s face.

“I thought you had to touch them,” he breathes, staring wide-eyed at the ornaments come to life at once, all light and movement, each telling a different story. 

“Not on Christmas,” Draco says, feeling like a helpless fool for smiling again when Harry presses a distracted kiss against his neck. He forces a frown. “Go to sleep, it’ll be there in the morning.”

Harry snorts, but grudgingly settles again. “Don’t pretend you didn’t put that up to impress me.”

“Is that all it would have taken?” Draco asks quietly, after a few beats.

The silence feels loaded, but then Harry kisses the nape of his neck, lips brushing just under his fall of hair, and that seems to... _say_ something, loud and clear.

***

“Draco.” His shoulder jostles, a warm hand prodding him. “Draco.”

Draco groans, turning to bury his face in the pillow, voice coming out grainy and muffled. “Just wank on my back, Potter. I’m tired.”

Harry snorts, then shoves his shoulder harder. “Maybe later. It’s Christmas.”

“Sure,” Draco mutters, “you get shagged for a gift and I get a wank over my back. Just because you saved the world...” 

“Just _wake up_ ,” Harry says, frustrated enough to convince Draco he’s actually awake. 

Laboriously, Draco lifts his head up, peering at Harry’s face with slitted eyes. He crouches by Draco’s side of the bed, between him and the tree, and looks amused and impatient, eyes vibrant behind his glasses. “It’s still dark out.” He drops his head back down. “‘m cold.”

“You _are not_ ,” Harry says with a huff. “You’re being lazy.”

“Let me hear you say that after you spend some time with my cock up your—”

“Oh my god,” Harry says. Draco peeks at him with one eye, smirking at the exasperation on his face. He lets his eye slide shut again, and then hears, “Fine; I’ll open my presents and talk to you about them later.”

Draco fumbles blindly for his wand again; finding it, he lifts his head and shoots Harry a pointed glare, then casts at both his tree and Harry’s, summoning the six wrapped parcels to the bed in a jumble, shoving them unceremoniously under the covers. “Get back in bed and you can have your bloody presents.”

“Why are you in such a bad mood?” Harry wonders aloud, climbing in — _over_ him, but careful not to crush the small pile of presents between the bedspread. Draco shakes his head.

“Because I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep in months, you daft prick!” he barks, finally rolling over, pushing the hair out of his face and continuing to grumble under his breath, though his eyes stray to the firm curve of Harry’s arse and flash of his cock as he wiggles under the covers. “I barely slept at all last year, and then I get paired with _you_ , and get wanked on all the time, and start having sex, and, and—”

Harry’s laughter cuts off his complaint. “You’re funny,” he says, shaking his head ruefully. Draco rolls his eyes and sighs, heaving himself up to a sit, back pressing into the headboard. Harry absently reaches out and adjusts Draco’s pillow so it’s not bunched under his tailbone, and a smile sneaks over Draco’s face before he can help it. He sighs again and rubs his eyes.

“What time is it?”

Vaguely sheepish, Harry mumbles, “Five. Almost.”

“Harry!”

Harry ducks his head, lips twitching, and Draco tries to stay irritated, but every twitch of Harry’s lips feels like a direct tug against his heart. He looks away, sliding his knees up under the blankets toward his chest and contemplates their trees for a moment; his has a ridiculous amount of presents beneath it — mostly from his mother, who always overdoes, as well as Pansy — and Harry’s far less, just what the Weasleys have sent along, and the odd gift from a few in his circle. (Lovegood’s is a badly disguised pineapple, the thorns popping out of the gold paper; even the leaves have been individually wrapped.) He’s rerouted the numerous, present-bearing owls he gets, once they’ve been checked, to nearby charities, because that’s who he is.

The Boy Who Lived is the boy in his bed. Draco shifts and, for a moment, feels at a loss for what to do next. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, and when Draco looks back over, he looks apologetic. “I should have waited.”

“No, don’t be,” Draco says. He folds his arms over his knees and rests his cheek on them, looking at Harry for a moment, then gives a tiny nod. “Open one.”

With a quick, winsome smile, Harry grabs one of the flat, square parcels, looking at Draco for a long moment before tearing the paper open. He looks down at the sheaf of parchment, the soft rustling of paper sounding as he flips through it, then starts reading in a hollow voice. 

“ _Dear Mr James,_

 _We are pleased to accept your contribution for publication. Your piece, **A New Ministry Rises?** was engaging and sharply written, and will no doubt make an impact in the wake of the war. As per your instructions, I am writing this immediately upon reviewing the article with the understanding that your scroll has confidentiality charms preventing me or others from making copies or remembering it in enough detail to rewrite—_ ”

Harry looks up quizzically, and Draco shrugs. “It seemed wise, considering,” he gets in before Harry starts reading again.

“ _—and that you are highly protective of your identity as well. The attached contract guarantees protection of your personal privacy, and credit to your article to any pseudonym you choose; furthermore, upon validation of the sources quoted, a transfer of one hundred Galleons will be made to the vault number you facilitate us with. Please have your solicitor look it over, and send a (non-charmed) scroll with any questions you have, to set up a meeting in person — which I would much prefer._

_To answer your other question, regarding permanent employment: we can currently (happily) offer you a paid internship/apprenticeship, with the likely opportunity for further publication. On-staff positions are offered after a year of training. The second contract outlines requirements, salary, and benefits._

_I look forward to meeting you, and thank you for your submission._

_Sincerely,_

_Esmeralda Castlewhite_  
 _Editor-In-Chief_  
 _Wizarding World Monthly_ ”

Harry sets the stack of paper onto Draco’s other nightstand, nudging it further away with his fingertip as though it’s a curse that will explode if jostled too carelessly. A pit of wariness forms in Draco’s stomach; he can’t read Harry’s expression.

“It’s just another option,” he says anxiously when the silence goes on too long, searching Harry’s profile. “Just in case. Because. You know, your writing is not as monstrously bad as I once might have assumed — your penmanship is, but not your writing, once I’d figured out a good enough translation charm — and if you’ve decided you’d actually _like_ to go into Auror training—”

“Thank you,” Harry says. 

“—then of course you should, but. Oh.” Draco swallows back the rest of his ramble and cautiously ventures, “You’re welcome?”

Harry sighs and turns to him, rubbing his scar with the heel of his palm for a moment, as if to remind himself of its existence. But his expression his soft, and his eyes flicker to Draco’s, looking for something. “Even Ron and Hermione don’t know yet that I’ve… doubted things,” he admits. “I don’t know if I can end up doing this, but _thank you_. Yeah. Draco, it’s almost,” his throat works silently for a second, “too much. Having the option to do something different. I don’t know what to say.”

“You could let me open one of my presents,” Draco suggests after a pause. Harry gives a wet-sounding laugh, and waves a hand.

“Just pitch-side season tickets for Puddlemere United,” he says, as if they’re not as extravagant as a new _Firebolt 2000_. “And since I know you like playing more than watching, I’m also shooting an advert for the British League under the condition that I can bring someone else to play, so. We get to play a ‘game’ with Pudd U and the Falcons. I dunno which team they’ll put you as the Seeker for, though. It’s not like what you did for me.”

“What the—” Draco tears the wrapping off the small flat boxes, unable to believe his eyes. He looks up at Harry, then down at the tickets in his hands, then back up and back down. His voice is weak. “These aren’t pitch-side. It’s with the players.” 

“Same thing, practically,” Harry says. 

Draco scoffs. “Even my _father_ wouldn’t have been able to get—” He bites his lip, stealing a glance at Harry’s face. Confusingly, he perks up. 

“Oh! I did, ah, get you something else, I guess,” Harry says. “‘S’not wrapped; but hang on, I want to open my ornaments.”

Still reeling, Draco automatically reaches to block him. “We’re playing _with_ the teams?”

Harry laughs cheerfully. “It’s the red present. I just wrapped last year’s advert and charmed our faces onto it,” he says as he flips the little latches of the square boxes in unison.

“Stop telling me my presents before I’ve the chance to open them!” Draco growls, starting in on the red present. He opens his mouth to tear into Harry but stops at Harry’s silence and looks up; he stills as Harry lifts out both ornaments at once: the universe ornament that’s been in Draco’s family for generations, which Harry had been so fascinated with — he’d never asked, when they were putting up the astronomy ornaments two days prior where it had gone, and thank Merlin for that — and another, brand new one. Both of them are already lit up, though Harry holds them by their ribbons; apparently Draco’s activation charm extended to them as well.

“Draco…”

“The, um, universe is antique, please remember,” he says haltingly, cheeks burning. “So be careful with it. And I apologise for the hazy quality of the memories in the other; it turns out that McGonagall got,” he coughs into his fist, “‘rather sauced,’ she told me, at your parent’s wedding reception. And Hagrid’s might look a little distorted, because of his...heritage,” Draco adds, uneasy; he’s still so unsure, sometimes, how not to offend. But at least Harry never seems to mind, as long as he shows he’s trying. “So—”

Harry stares fiercely at the spinning ornament; in it Lily is wearing a cream, ankle-length bohemian style dress, pinched in at the waist and draping to the floor. It’s embroidered with pale gold daisies at the hem and neck, and she has a matching crown of flowers over her flowing dark red hair as she walks down the tiny aisle with a bouquet of wildflowers in her hands, toward where Harry’s father stands waiting with Sirius Black.

In this, Draco knows without a doubt, despite the dampness in Harry’s eyes, he’s done _well._ He touches Harry’s wrist, then looks away when Harry rapidly begins blinking, and talks to give Harry a chance to steady himself. “It’s fine if you don’t want the Malfoy ornament on your tree; you simply seemed to like it, and I couldn’t find one that belonged to your family. But every tree should have an antique ornament on it, come Christmas. For tidings of good fortune. I imagine even the Weasleys have one or two.”

“They do,” Harry says at last. Draco looks back over to him; the tightness around his eyes, that ache of tears trying to be held back, has eased. He places the ornaments gently back in their boxes, then looks up. “I’m not in love with you, Draco—”

“That’s fine,” Draco says, nodding evenly over the throb of pain in his midsection; it doesn’t matter, really, though stating it so plainly wasn’t necessary, he thinks. “I didn’t get those for you, thinking you were.”

“—but I think I will be soon,” Harry says. “I’m getting there, at least, and—”

“Wait, what?” Draco’s head comes up. “Because of the _presents?_ ”

Harry gives a tiny shrug, a small laugh. “No. Just am.”

“ _Why?_ ” Draco asks. Harry opens his mouth, then startles as their door opens and Weasley and Granger come striding in, arguing quietly. 

“Their _light_ is on,” Weasley says practically. “Mum wanted us there _early,_ so why not—”

“It’s rude, Ron,” Hermione says, obviously not realising she and Weasley have already completely entered the room and are standing in the middle of it debating whether or not they should come in without knocking. Draco stares at them, tugging the blankets higher around his hips as the mattress starts shaking with Harry’s silent laughter. “You don’t just— oh my goodness!” She buries her face in her mittened hands when she notices them, clearly naked under the covers together, one of Harry’s legs uncovered almost to the hip. “We’re so sorry!”

“Why?” Weasley says, giving her a strange look. “They’re awake, see?”

“ _Ron_ ,” she moans, peeking out of her mittens, then covering her face again. “They’re—”

“Already opening presents!” Weasley, who Draco promptly decides to call Ron again, darts a casual gaze over his and Harry’s close positioning in bed and doesn’t even bat an eye this time. He sits on the foot of it, and Draco glares at him half-heartedly even while Harry starts making a wheezing sound next to him.

“R-Ron, m-maybe this isn’t th-the right time,” he gets out through heaving laughter. 

“It’s Christmas!” Ron objects.

Hermione — _Granger,_ Draco thinks derisively, because she was meant to have far more fortitude than Ron — makes a strangled noise and twirls, dashing out of the room and calling out a high, “Happy Christmas!” behind her, managing to miss the door frame by a miraculous inch, considering she’s still covering her eyes.

“Ron,” Draco says carefully when he’s sure he won’t dissolve into the same laughter that’s taken hold of Harry, “we’re naked.”

“Oh.” He Summons a piece of peppermint fudge from the open box on Draco’s desk. “You want to get dressed?”

“ _Go_ ,” Harry finally says. “For fuck’s sake, Ron!”

Ron snickers, then rises. He opens the rucksack in his hands and pulls out two gifts, placing them on the foot of the bed. “From me and ‘Mione.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. Ron winks and tosses them each a tiny piece of wrapped peppermint fudge and they both snatch them out of the air in an oddly synchronised motion, then exchange a look of such _understanding,_ that Draco can’t help the smile that plays over his face.

“One of ‘em’s for Draco,” Ron says, heading out. Draco’s heart skips. “Owl us later!” He shuts the door behind him, leaving Draco with the awful choice of either finding out immediately what _Ron and Granger_ have gotten him, or— 

“Why? Why me?” Draco asks, only feeling then — as he says it — just how hard it’s been pressing on him, all this time.

“Lots of reasons,” Harry says, picking up the thread of their conversation easily. The lingering smile on his face from Ron and Granger’s visit softens. “I like that you’re… A romantic, even after…”

“I am _not_ ,” Draco says sharply, affronted, “romantic.”

“Not romantic; _a_ romantic,” Harry says, like there’s a difference. He looks at the ornament again, resting in its box. “Although—”

“I’m simply adept at giving gifts,” he sniffs. “Part of my upbringing.”

“Malfoy—” Harry scratches the back of his neck, a gesture Draco’s come to recognise as a stalling tactic. “You’re that, too. But, I mean. Ron loves his parents a lot, and he never memorised whatever bonding spell they used, or the specifications of their match.”

Draco’s face turns hot. “That’s not abnormal. I learned a lot of things, growing up: I speak Latin, and French and even some Mermish and Goblin; I know how to host a gala with a thousand attendees; I can even play Chopin’s Nocturne in F minor — without a charm!” he adds triumphantly, though he hadn’t been able to until he was fifteen. “Purebloods have a very well-rounded education outside of Hogwarts, thank you.”

“But which of those things did you learn because you…” Harry hesitates for a second, “ _needed_ to? Because you wanted what you saw?”

“All of them,” Draco says, confused, and Harry rumbles a rueful laugh. 

“No, I mean, which thing that you learned was something you chose? Something _not_ shoved in front of you by a tutor?”

Draco swallows, then twitches his head in a nod to concede the point. “So?”

Harry shrugs. “So I like it,” he says. “I like that about you.”

“That I wanted to be like my parents?” Draco says in disbelief, leaning away to get a better look at Harry and make sure he’s not Polyjuiced. “Have you forgotten what they _were?_ What I...?”

Suddenly, Harry looks at him fiercely; he reaches out and captures Draco’s forearm, the fingers of his opposite hand tracing it roughly; nothing like the gentle, curious touch from that night so many weeks ago, Harry asleep and placid as he’d investigated it. Now, Harry’s face twists into a hard frown, jaw bunching when he looks at it. Draco tries to pull away automatically but Harry levels a glare at him and tightens his hand. He’s seen it so many times at this point, Draco doesn’t know what the _point_ is, if Harry’s reconsidering everything simply because Draco couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“This,” Harry says, quietly, “is not what you are. You wanted to be this because your parents were different with you, different in _front_ of you, and they showed you something you admired. Why wouldn’t you listen to them?” His voice turns grating as he forces the words out. “I learned things, too, that I grew up thinking were… right, or wrong,” he says. “And I didn’t even look up to my family; they weren’t even nice to me.” He sighs. “I’m not excusing what happened — what they did or what you did — but you _know_ it was wrong, so I don’t have to even try… Which is another part of the ‘why’ you keep asking about.”

Draco stares at him silently, then looks down at Harry’s hand, warm palm now covering a great portion of it. He lets the words work on a loop in his mind, the preposterous idea that Harry might/could possibly _feel_ certain things slowly sinking in. He licks his lips. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” he says, then blinks at how that sounds. He opens his mouth to try again, but Harry nods as if he understood it.

“I know. Sometimes that stuff is hard to believe.” He slants Draco a look, eyes softening. “But keep trying, okay?”

Draco huffs a little and tries to lighten the mood. “You like me,” he says, carefully staying away from the other word, “because I’m— Because I’m...” He snorts, nodding wordlessly for a moment. “Because I’m a romantic prawn who likes Christmas? And to think, you don’t even care about me speaking Mermish.”

Harry looks blank for a moment, then gives him a lopsided grin. “I guess not. Those romantic prawns get me every time.” He laughs at Draco’s return grin, squeezing the inside of his forearm once more before releasing it. “I got you something else.”

“I know,” Draco says, relieved to have escaped the potentially awkward moment. He picks up the last square gift and smirks. “I wonder what on earth it could be.”

To his surprise, Harry grabs for it, face reddening. “No, not that. That’s not really it. There’s nothing in there, I mean, that was just for— for show. A placeholder,” he says, words spilling so fast there’s no doubt he’s lying. Draco keeps his face mild and nods, allowing Harry to wind down, and setting the gift casually between them.

“Okay. What is it then?”

Sighing, Harry glances once more at the square box with barely-concealed panic and Draco can practically hear his thoughts: if he grabs for it again, he’ll practically be screaming that there’s something inside he doesn’t want Draco to see. He leans back, his pose one of badly-studied casualness, and then swallows. A little smile curls his mouth.

“Visitation rights.”

“What?” Draco frowns, mind still on the mystery ornament. “For wh— _Harry_.” Numb with shock, Draco understands all at once, the implications slamming into him with the force of a Bludger. “ _How?_ ”

“Don’t get too excited,” Harry says uneasily, looking chagrined. “They’re just for your mum, and not until the new year. They won’t let you in until his visitation ban is fully lifted in a couple of years, with—”

“My Mark, I know,” Draco says breathlessly. “But—”

“Yeah, I should have said that first; sorry, I just—”

Draco covers Harry’s mouth with one hand, halting his speech. “ _Don’t_ apologise,” he says, “not for this.” He drops his hand, and fuck if he’s not close to tears again. Goddamn Harry and his stupidly huge sense of...whatever this is, he thinks. “My mother can see him?”

“Twice a week,” Harry confirms, watching him closely. 

“Thank you,” Draco says belatedly, rubbing the aching prickle from his eyes. He’s rocked to his core by the enormity of it — who the hell is he, to get so smug over finding the perfect gift? — his chin soft and wobbly. His words go down to a mumble, “That’s not enough; I know that’s not enough, but… Thank you. I know you hate him, you’ve every right to hate him—”

“So?” Harry says, clipped. “ _I_ don’t have to see him,” he adds, and Draco gurgles out a wet laugh, shaking his head. 

“No, never,” he promises. “Even if—”

“Even if what?” Harry asks slyly, a gleam in his eyes when Draco breaks off. “Even if we’re still… When he gets out?”

Which won’t be for _five years_ , and how Draco can be so helplessly charmed, touched, and _irritated_ by the same person, he’ll probably never understand. The arsehole drives him from the brink of emotion to a near-throttle on a twice daily basis, at least. “I didn’t _say_ that.”

“You didn’t not say it,” Harry points out.

“Shut up.”

“ _You_ shut up,” Harry says, snorting.

Draco rolls his eyes and gives him a half-hearted shove; then, when Harry laughs harder and closes his eyes, snatches the gift from between them in a flash and rips it open; Harry scrambles but, Draco thinks smugly as he lifts out the ornament, he’s too late.

“ _Malfoy!_ ” Harry barks weakly, reaching futility for it. Draco knocks his hand away, staring; stunned. “Really,” Harry says, plaintive and apologetic, “It was— I didn’t know you’d be getting me such... _thoughtful_ gifts, things I’d really—”

“Oh, this is thoughtful,” Draco says faintly, eyes fixed — possibly permanently — onto the images moving within the crystal. “What the _fuck_ , Potter?”

“It was a joke,” Harry tries miserably, burying his face in his hands and finally giving Draco leave to absolutely lose it. 

He starts laughing incredulously, shouldering Harry back when he tries to grab the ornament again, then finally driving a solid elbow into Harry’s ribs; there’s no fucking way Harry’s winning this one. Not only will it be the _perfect_ material to guilt him with later on, Draco’s eyes are going dry and he starts to wonder if he’ll ever be able to blink again.

And he’s _definitely_ getting ready for his turn.

Because inside the ornament is the two of them; a memory, along the same line as his own gift. Only it’s not a simple wedding, hidden under starlight, or two brand new parents smiling at their squalling infant with identical expressions of infinite love. No, instead it’s Harry, wanking fervently over Draco’s face; Draco stares up at him with slick, swollen lips, his cheeks and mouth catching the long spurts of Harry’s spunk as he comes.

Draco finally figures out how to blink through his laughter as the scene starts over again and Harry pulls his prick out of Draco’s mouth, already climaxing. Thank Salazar; he thinks his eyeballs would have fallen out soon.

“ _Draco_ ,” Harry practically moans, phoenix-red and squirming beside him. “Get rid of it; I’m sorry—”

“Seriously, Potter, what the absolute _fuck?_ ” Draco manages to croak out again, still laughing. “Happy fucking Christmas?”

Harry groans. “God, fine, I’m _sorry,_ I don’t know what I was thinking.” He rubs his hands over his face and finally looks at Draco when his wheezy chortling dies down. For a time, there’s silence as Draco contemplates the ornament in continued, comical shock, spinning it to see from every angle of Harry’s memory. Then Harry touches his thigh and Draco looks over to see him grimacing, sheepishly repentant. “Should I go back to my bed, then?” he asks, at least partly joking.

“Goddamnit, Potter, you complete wanker,” Draco says, setting down the ornament in his lap when Harry winces, rueful. He looks at it for another moment, deciding to put it on the tree later, then turns back to Harry and finally lets himself believe. That Harry cares; that this could last. He meets Harry’s eyes, grinning, and when he continues, his voice is hopelessly, recklessly fond. “This _is_ your bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are absolutely lovely. 
> 
> Also, I'm on [tumblr](https://bixgirl1.tumblr.com/), too, now! *waves*


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